Aithed
by uchiha.s
Summary: AU, Jonsa, Dicksa, Jaimsa. ["I thought you vowed to never marry," Davos reminded him cautiously, conscious of how his temper had raged earlier. Jon faced the fire, avoiding the older man's eyes. "She needs me," he finally said.] They had stolen Sansa Stark for the ransom they could get for her, but when Dickon wants her back, Jon finds he can't quite let her go.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

* * *

"She's the key to the north," Dany had told the men earlier that evening, as they had prepared to set out on their mission. "The Tarlys will pay any price to get her back, Varys told us that. It's the only way we'll get the gold that we need."

Dany wasn't wrong, according to Tyrion. Daario and Jorah were becoming too notorious among the clans; their faces were too known now and there were prices on their heads. They couldn't just keep stealing from the great houses forever. Their luck would run out soon; moreover, as Tyrion had pointed out, the great houses' coffers would run out, soon, too.

Some of the great houses supported their cause, but in turbulent times like these, there was little gold to spare. Wars demanded money that most of the North simply did not have. Now Jon found himself riding by moonlight across the moors to Winterfell, with Jorah and Davos on either side of him. Their horses were swift, and they did not make conversation.

For this, Jon was glad. They had spent nearly a fortnight in their latest holdfast, listening to Tyrion drink and start petty arguments between Daario and Jorah for his own amusement, with Dany stepping in only occasionally. Having the two men pitted against each other was strategically beneficial to a certain point, but not if they actually killed each other.

Jon had been glad for the chance to be in the open air, doing something of value to their cause. He'd spent most of his life out of doors, and being inside for so long felt unnatural to him. He knew Davos was the same.

It felt good to be doing something, though the honor of it was in question. Dany, sensing Jon and Davos' misgivings, had been quick to point out what Varys had told them: the Stark girl was technically a prisoner in her own home, having been sold like a broodmare to the Tarlys. She would merely be trading one prison for another. No harm would come to her, Dany had reasoned, and she had reminded them all that she too had once been forced into a marriage. Any respite from her captors would be welcome. They'd take the girl, scare the Tarlys into giving them the funds they so sorely needed, and then promptly return the girl unharmed.

If this truly would be a respite from captivity, then in a way, it seemed even crueler to Jon. The Stark girl would have a taste of freedom, only to have it snatched away. Then again, he doubted she would see the abduction as freedom. Dany seemed to think she'd welcome kidnapping with open arms—Jon was not so sure. After all, he knew what it was to be taken, even from a home to which you did not truly belong.

All in all, he'd be glad when this business was done and they had their gold and could continue on their path to putting Dany on the throne as the rightful heir. Once they had the gold, they wouldn't need to hide out in holdfasts, trapped amongst each other, whiling away the hours with wine and empty strategizing.

"Not far now," Davos said, his voice nearly lost on the wind. "Look at the frost."

They were well north now. The moors were frosty and the wind was howling louder.

Up ahead, the dark silhouette of Winterfell loomed. A chill ran down Jon's spine. He was the blood of Winterfell, and that was half of why Dany had sent him. He'd been fostered there when it had belonged to Lord Eddard Stark; his mother, Lyanna, was buried in its crypts. He knew the place, knew how to slip in unnoticed.

He barely recalled the Stark girl, though. With his mother dead and his father marked a traitor to the kingdom, Jon hadn't been allowed to play with the Stark children, and had grown up watching them from afar.

That was the other half of why Dany had sent him.

Convinced of the bad blood between Jon and the Starks, she wanted to give him the chance for vengeance. But Jon felt no ill will towards Sansa Stark. She had never been kind to him, but she'd never been unkind, either. She'd merely been a child raised to believe she was special—and did their mission not prove that fact? They were risking everything to steal her.

Eddard Stark, his uncle, had always been kind to him whenever he could. Had his mother not married a traitor to the realm, he might have grown up alongside the other Stark children, beloved and cherished. But as it had been, Eddard could hardly be seen showing affection to the son of a traitor.

"Lead the way, Snow," Jorah said, his voice wry with irony as they neared the walls of Winterfell. Jon reflexively touched his sword at his belt, and slowed his black destrier. He could almost make out the torches through the mist.

"We go around, toward the wood," Jon said, guiding them west. "We'll tie the horses there and go on foot the rest of the way."

Being the son of a traitor and an unloved boy had had its advantages: Jon had gotten to know Winterfell better than anyone else. How many hours had been chased away by walking the battlements, by exploring the crypts by torchlight? He knew every weakness in Winterfell's walls.

Daario might have blundered in through the front gate or tried to scale the walls. The man was skilled and fierce but blunt and temperamental. Grey Worm might have been a solid choice, but Davos had convinced Jon to pick Jorah instead.

"If we leave Mormont and the Tyroshi together any longer, we'll not have a holdfast to come back to," Davos had said under his breath, as they'd stood in the corner, surveying the men in the room and making their strategy. Jon had to agree. Besides, Jorah was cleverer than Grey Worm, and far more experienced.

They tied their horses at the edge of the wood, and silently made their way to the west gate of Winterfell. They were mere shadows in the mist. Bypassing the gate, they went north towards the glass garden.

There had been a crack in the stones of the wall behind the glass garden. It was unlikely to have been repaired, as no one had known of it when Jon had lived at Winterfell. If by some stroke of fate it had been blocked in, they'd scale the broken tower.

It was past midnight now. Jon walked along the wall, his bare hand grazing the stones as he walked. It had been near fifteen years since he had been here last, before the Targaryens had stolen him back. No one would have paid a ransom for him, and Dany had always fiercely told him that no price could have bought him back once she had him.

Jon wondered if this was true. He had been so happy to be taken to people that had wanted him, to people who had not cringed and looked the other way whenever they saw him, that it wasn't until he was older that he thought much of the fact that he was technically a prisoner as well.

"Here," he breathed, as they came to the gash in the wall. It was barely enough for a man to fit through, but they were all slender men, though Davos and Jorah weren't young anymore. Jon peered through the gash into the glass gardens. The vegetation was thicker than ever and it would give them enough cover. One by one, they crept in.

A low wall separated the glass gardens from the rest of Winterfell. On the other side, they could hear one of the Tarly men loosely keeping watch. In the old days of knights and maidens, two guards would have been positioned at each gate, prepared to take down any intruders, with more guards patrolling the grounds, but these were different times. The Tarlys were well off but they were from the south, where things were easier, where men worked in poison and treason and alliances—not with dirks and swords and shadow.

They melded with the shadows as they moved through the godswood, the stand of ancient trees where Jon had prayed as a boy. Raucous laughter was coming from the armory and each man held his breath and froze in place. A serving girl was giggling as a man led her toward the godswood, their breaths clouding in the air.

Distantly, music could be heard, coming from the Great Hall. The Tarlys had to celebrate the acquisition of Winterfell, after all. In two weeks' time when the Stark girl married Dickon Tarly, Winterfell would officially be Tarly lands. They would likely even rename it, to something more southron.

It was late now; the Stark girl would be in her rooms, as it would be improper for her to witness what a Tarly party looked like after midnight. "You know the southron lords," Varys had tittered. "They don't have quite the same definition of honor that the northerners do. One look at Lady Sansa Stark and she'll be spoiled goods before Dickon can marry her. She's as beautiful as her mother...perhaps even more beautiful," Varys had gossiped, his gaze lingering a little too knowingly on Dany's face.

Dany had spent the last fifteen years being the most beautiful woman in the room, accustomed to being adored by every man who crossed paths with her. At Varys' words she'd sat a little straighter, Jon noticed.

The Great Hall was still lit up with the party, with a few guests spilling out drunkenly.

Jorah went first. He'd shed his riding clothes, revealing a fine waistcoat. He had the look of a lord, and blended in well. No one took notice of him as he made his way across the courtyard to the entrance of the Great Keep.

Jon and Davos had dressed for utility, all in black. They soon followed, once they got Jorah's signal that the coast was clear and that he'd got what they needed for the next part of the plan. Inside the Great Keep, Jorah was waiting with stolen servant's garb and a cup full of wine. Jon slipped on the roughspun waistcoat over his own clothing and took the cup.

More likely than not the Stark girl had kept the same bedroom she'd had as a child. He walked swiftly along the hall, the cup gripped tightly in his clammy hands. He couldn't believe they'd encountered no trouble yet. This should have been harder. Had Varys betrayed them?

At the end of the hall, a man was positioned outside the Stark girl's door.

"Wine from Lord Tarly," Jon informed the guard as he reached him. The guard was tall and broad—probably a lesser Tarly, judging by his stature—and dressed in a fine brocade waistcoat. "To thank you for your service."

"I've never seen you before," the man observed, narrowing his eyes at Jon and puffing up his chest.

There was no one else in the corridor. His dirk was inside his waistcoat, for Jorah and Davos had taken his sword.

"I'm new," Jon told him. "Brought in special for the party."

"I know all of Lord Tarly's men," the man said, abruptly unsheathing his sword.

The cup clattered against the stone floor, the wine splashing everywhere. The man was fast, but Jon was faster. It would have been quieter to slit his throat but the man was too big and too tall; Jon wouldn't have been able to get behind him fast enough. His dirk sank into the guard's belly, as the guard started shouting. "INTRUDER!"

Footsteps were coming fast enough. Jon braced himself and launched against the locked door, barreling it down. His shoulder throbbed as he exploded into the room, keenly aware of the approaching shouts and footfalls. The dirk in his hand was bloody.

And there she was.

* * *

Sansa shed her pale pink silk dress, her cheeks as pink as the silk in the candlelight, her heart still fluttering.

Dickon had escorted her to her room just moments ago, after his father had decided that the party was growing too rowdy and wild for her presence to be proper.

They'd not been alone yet before tonight, not properly. Walking in the frosty night, arm in arm, she had felt his heat, and scented his skin. He had been nervous, stammering in a way that she would not have expected from him.

"Y-you look so lovely tonight, Sansa," he had finally said as they had reached the shadow of the Great Keep. Pausing, she had turned to him. There was no moon tonight, and his warm brown eyes had looked darker than ever.

As a little girl, she had loved the tales of knights and maidens, and in his fine red waistcoat, with his strong jaw and broad shoulders and lean waist, Dickon could have easily been a knight in one of her picture books that Father had given her. And he was so gallant, always so polite... "That is, you always look lovely," he hastily added in her silence. She couldn't help but smile at him. He was so sweet, so gentle.

"Thank you," she had demurred, looking down at the ground shyly. They were all alone in the courtyard, she realized, and her heart was pounding now. When she looked up, the sweetness had melted away and he was looking down at her with desire unmistakably darkening his eyes.

"I cannot wait until we are wed," he confessed breathlessly, taking her hands in his.

Until a month ago, she had thought she'd never be married for love, but there was no question in her mind that Dickon had fallen for her the moment he had set his warm brown eyes on her. It had been a whirlwind fairy tale since that moment they had locked eyes in court. "I want to kiss you terribly," he admitted suddenly. "It's all I can think about. I wish we could marry now, tonight."

Her heart had soared as a strange heat spread through her. After all the years, all of the pain, it almost seemed too good to be true: that she should get to marry a man as lovely and kind as Dickon, that she should get to return to her home, to live as husband and wife in the home she had thought she'd never see again. She squeezed his hands in hers, her eyes burning with the threat of tears, a lump rising in her throat. "What's wrong?" he asked softly, releasing her hands to cup her cheek. Sansa swallowed, feeling his thumb caress her cheek. His hands were smooth and warm.

"I'm happy," she replied, with a teary laugh. "I never thought…" she couldn't finish. Dickon's brow furrowed.

"May I kiss you?" he breathed, leaning in close, and she had wordlessly nodded, her blood pounding in her ears like a drum.

He had pressed his lips to hers, his hands on her shoulders, clutching her tightly; his desire for her barely restrained. She had curled her fingers into his waistcoat, felt the thick silk under her fingers, and the hard chest underneath. He was strong, and gentle, and kind, and he was kissing her tenderly, gently, even though she could feel that he wanted to do so much more. She wanted to know what he wanted to do.

They'd heard the sound of laughter, and broken apart abruptly, breathless and flushed. A few of Lord Tarly's men stumbled out of the Great Hall, clutching goblets of wine and making loud, inappropriate jokes. Dickon's blush had been visible even in the darkness.

"Come, this is no place for a lady, it seems," he had said sweetly, and with a gentle hand had guided her into the Great Keep. At her door, one of Lord Tarly's men had been waiting, stopping them from one last kiss. Breathlessly Dickon had bid her goodnight, and Sansa had all but swooned backward into her room.

Her maid had unlaced her corset for her, and then Sansa sent the woman away, wanting to be alone. She wanted to be alone to cherish that kiss, to see it again and again in her mind's eye, to feel his grip on her arms, his soft lips against hers, and to imagine what it might feel like to have himbe the one to unlace her corset.

She donned a nightdress and sat at her vanity table, brushing her hair out of its elaborate style, the jeweled pins scattered on her table. She dabbed on some of the perfume that Dickon had brought as a gift for her, on the inside of her wrists and on her neck, and in a fresh burst of ecstasy imagined his lips pressed against her neck, taking in the scent of the perfume he had bought for her on her skin.

And then, in an explosion of noise, her door burst open.

* * *

The Stark girl was by her vanity table, in a dangerously sheer nightdress. She rose from her chair shakily, paling, her unbound copper hair gleaming in the firelight.

Varys had been right. She was lovely. Jon wondered if she would recognize him. It had been fifteen years, after all, and he had a beard and a man's face now.

"Get away from me. My husband's guards will be here soon," she told him, moving backwards.

"You should come quietly. Take a cloak, it's cold," he told her. The Stark girl slammed back into her vanity table, feeling behind her wildly for something. Jon ignored her and went to her wardrobe, and found a thick traveling cloak. When he turned, she was holding a knife with shaking hands.

"Stay back," she whispered. Her bright blue eyes, bright as the center of a flame, took in the bloody dirk in his hand.

"Take the cloak," he said, ignoring her threat, tossing the heavy fabric to her. She didn't catch it, didn't move.

"Y-you killed him," she realized. "You killed the guard."

"We don't have time for talk," Jon told her calmly. He approached her. "Put down that knife; it won't help you."

The door banged open again, but it was Davos and Jorah, each holding bloody swords.

"We'll have some trouble," Davos said matter-of-factly as he turned around and locked the door again. Jorah was already sliding the wardrobe along the floor to block the door. A loud bang sounded on the door.

"OPEN UP," a rough man's voice called. Davos rolled his eyes, muttering, "Does he really think that'll do anything?" and helped Jorah block the door; the Stark girl backed up to her bed, still holding out the knife.

"What is it you want?" she demanded. "Is it money? My husband will pay."

"We know he will. That's the point of all this. And he's not your husband yet," Jon told her. "Put the knife down, now."

He went to her, and she ducked behind a bedpost. She was in tears.

"Don't touch me!"

He'd have to attack her; he'd thought she might come quietly. She'd always been the delicate one of the Starks, always flouncing around in pretty dresses and swooning over romantic stories of knights and princesses. He doubted she knew how to use that knife, but it was still a blade pointed at him and she could very easily get lucky.

And then her eyes widened.

"Wait," she breathed. "J-Jon Snow?"

His mouth went dry at the look of horror and betrayal in her eyes. In that moment, as they both froze, Jorah swept in from behind and hit her over the head with the butt of his blade, knocking her out.

"This is no time to be a gentleman, Snow," he said irritably as the girl collapsed into his arms. "Here, take her."

The Stark girl moaned as Jorah handed her to Jon. Annoyed, Jon hoisted her over his shoulder. Davos had dropped the rope ladder they'd brought out the window and secured it; the wardrobe in front of the door shook and trembled as the men tried to break down the door.

Jorah went first down the ladder with his blade ready, then Davos. The Stark girl was limp but she'd come to soon. He had to move quickly.

The rope ladder felt flimsy, especially under their combined weight. It wasn't a long drop but it'd hurt if they fell. There were shouts on the other side of the courtyard. They had mere seconds to escape.

They ran to the north gate. Jorah made quick work of the guard there, putting the body count at two. They'd wanted to do this without blood, as it would have made Tarly sweeter to the idea of paying a high price, but it was too late now. Fire and blood, Jon thought. I'm a Targaryen after all.

Jorah and Davos sprinted ahead to the horses to untie them and bring them to Jon. He looked over his shoulder, back at Winterfell, to see if they were close. The Stark girl was growing heavy and he could feel her shifting. Should've tied her hands, he thought unhappily as he saw the torches at the north gate.

They were coming after them.

Jorah and Davos brought the horses and helped Jon mount with the Stark girl. She slumped in the saddle in front of him, her soft body against his chest, and then they were riding into the woods.

* * *

Sansa woke with a gasp on horseback, her wrists tied, her face damp and cold, and her fingers numb. She felt a man's strong chest against her back.

The last thing she remembered was seeing Jon Snow holding a bloody dirk and advancing on her.

She hadn't seen him since her childhood, but it had been unmistakably him. He had the Stark face and Stark eyes. He had grown into a beautiful, terrible man.

Her head throbbed; she supposed one of the men had knocked her out.

Strong, scarred hands held the reins, arms effectively imprisoning her.

"Where are we going?" Her voice was nearly lost in the wind.

"South," came Jon Snow's soft voice.

"Why?"

"You're a hostage of Princess Daenerys Targaryen."

They want Tarly to pay for me, she thought dully. Just as Randyll Tarly wanted me for my name.

She was gold, nothing more. Only Dickon wanted her for her, not for her name or her status.

She was property to be purchased, to be stolen, and to be bought back. Even Jon Snow, her cousin, her own kin, would steal her for coin.

"You are dishonorable." She knew he had heard her, because she felt him flinch. "You're no true Stark. Father never would have done something like this. It's just like mother always said: there's too much Targaryen in you to trust."

"Half the country would put a Targaryen on the throne," she heard him counter. There was pain in his voice; she had wounded him. Good.

"Then why do you need to steal me?" she asked softly. He had no retort for that, it seemed.

* * *

He would not name her Sansa in his head. Calling her the Stark girl distanced her, made it easier to do this. Her long hair smelled sweet, and brushed against his skin as they rode into the wind. It irritated him.

It would be another hour to the holdfast; they'd had to go through the wood and around it to lose Tarly's men. Now that she was awake, she sat straight on the horse, attempting to put as much distance between them as possible. But she was shaking with cold; he could feel her trembling finely against him.

He might have offered her his own cloak, but her words burned. You're no true Stark.

Jon would not soon forget the memory of Catelyn Stark pointing at him, shielding Sansa from him as they passed. She had turned to look back at him, her copper hair fanning around her, her eyes filled with curiosity. The other Stark children had been warmer, but she had always taken after her mother.

"I suppose you volunteered to take me. As revenge," the Stark girl said, after a long while.

That burned, too.

"Don't speak," he ordered brusquely. "When we get to Princess Daenerys, you'll only speak when spoken to, and do as you're told. No harm will come to you, so long as you make no trouble."

"Aside from being brutally ripped from my home, and freezing to death, yes, I'm sure."

"No more speaking," he said through grit teeth.

She didn't speak again, but she still sat up straight as a rod, cringing whenever the horse jostled them enough to brush against each other. But her shaking was growing more violent, and they still had many miles to go. Ahead, Jorah and Davos rode in silence, keeping a swift pace even as they zigzagged and detoured. They'd outrun Tarly's men, to be sure, but they couldn't be too careful.

She wouldn't ask for a cloak, of course. Besides, he'd told her not to speak. He heard her teeth chattering, and he couldn't stand it anymore. With the reins in one hand, he shrugged off his cloak with the other, and clumsily draped it over her shoulders.

"What are you doing?"

"You're shaking," he said shortly. The cloth settled over her, and he did his best to smooth it out. He felt her shrink from his touch as his hand lingered on her shoulder.

He opened and closed his mouth. He wanted to tell her that he didn't want revenge, wanted to tell her that he wished her no harm, but the words wouldn't come out. They would be hollow words; after all, as she had said, he had killed to kidnap her.

For the rest of the journey, they did not speak, but the tension was thick, and her hatred for him palpable.

* * *

The holdfast was an old stone house in a boggy area, guarded by high stone walls and set behind woods as tangled and bristled as a wild dog's fur. Grey Worm was waiting for them at the gate, the soldier's posture stiff as a board.

"We were followed at first, but I think we lost them," Davos said in greeting as Grey Worm unlocked the gate. His dark eyes went to Sansa Stark.

"Princess Daenerys is awake and ready to receive the Stark girl," Grey Worm replied. The gate rattled as he dragged it open. Tyrion was coming out the front entrance, still fully dressed in an embroidered navy waistcoast, carrying a cup of wine, as usual.

"Lady Sansa Stark, soon to be Lady Tarly," he greeted. "You are lovelier every time I see you."

"Lord Lannister," she greeted coolly. Tyrion's mismatched eyes flicked to Jon so briefly, and there was something in his gaze that Jon did not like, though he could not say why.

Davos and Jorah dismounted and Grey Worm took the horses to the stable; the two men helped the Stark girl dismount as well. She stumbled a bit. Her legs were clearly stiff from riding.

"Come, Lady Stark. We have food and wine, and a hot bath and change of clothes for you before you meet with Princess Daenerys," Tyrion said, leading her—though he did not untie her wrists—into the house. Jon watched her for a moment, before abruptly jerking the reins and leading his horse to the stables.

Though it was cold, his blood ran strangely hot. He supposed that he was still angry from her words. He was glad to be free of her. His waistcoat smelled like her perfume, he realized as he stabled his horse. He'd change once he got inside.

You are dishonorable.

Furiously, he slammed the gate to the stables closed. Grey Worm glanced at him with vague curiosity, but then went back to his task, and Jon exploded into the courtyard. A light snow was falling, and the window to the parlor was visible from here, casting a square of warm golden light before him. Jon stood outside of its light, and looked into the window. The Stark girl was inside, still wrapped in his cloak, being served hot wine and a warm supper, though she would not eat it. He watched her shake her head, her cheeks still flushed from the cold.

He let out a long breath, watched it cloud in the air before him.

The Stark girl was worth money, and Dany's cause was worth everything to him. Dany had saved him from a life of ostracism, of always being the traitor's son. She saved people. He would do anything for her in return.

You are no true Stark, Sansa Stark had said.

I never was, he thought as he stared hard at Sansa Stark through the window. You and your mother made certain of that.

Perhaps Dany was right: perhaps some part of him wanted revenge after all…

* * *

There was a hot bath and a warm fire waiting in her room for her. A dark-skinned girl with a foreign accent led her to the room, with Tyrion Lannister's warning still ringing in her head.

You are a guest here, but make no mistake, you will only go home when we see fit. Take care to remember that, Lady Stark.

The door locked behind her. She was once again locked in a splendid cage. Sansa went to the windows. She could have jumped, but men with swords were stationed on the ground.

In the corner was a tub of steaming water, scented with rose oil. The furnishings were a bit dusty and worn but the wardrobe had a few silk dresses inside, clearly well made though they were well worn too. The Beggar Princess, they called Daenerys Targaryen.

She was still frozen, so she slipped out of Jon Snow's heavy cloak and her nightgown, in order to bathe. His cloak smelled of his skin, and the scent clung to her. She was eager to be rid of his scent; just the thought of his face filled her with rage. She tossed the nightgown aside and clambered into the hot tub. The water was scalding hot but felt icy cold at first; the skin of her wrists, still chafed from the rope, seared with pain as the hot water touched it.

After bathing, she changed into the underpinnings provided. She needed to call in the girl, Missandei, to help her into the corset. She then selected a pale blue silk dress. She looked best in blue. But the gown was too short.

"It is one of Princess Daenerys' old dresses," Missandei explained as she led her down the stairs. Princess Daenerys was waiting in the parlor now. Eyes gazed at her through open doors. The house was packed with people; she wondered whom they all were. Her hair was still wet and she felt self-conscious in her too-short dress, but she held her back straight. She would not show any weakness. "Presenting Princess Daenerys Targaryen, true heir to the Iron Throne," Missandei said as she opened the door to the parlor.

Daenerys was beautiful; with blonde hair so pale it looked silver, and striking violet eyes. She was reclining in a chair by the fire. The two men who had helped Jon Snow to abduct her were positioned across the room, and another man, wearing a powdered grey wig with a blue tint, was by Princess Daenerys' side.

Jon Snow stood in the corner, staring out the window. He was clad in a somewhat finer waistcoat now than before, though it was dark and nondescript. His hair was wet from a bath as well, curling against his neck and jaw, most of it pulled back in a low knot at the base of his neck. He did not turn to look at her, his gaze fiercely fixed outside at the darkness.

"Lady Sansa Stark," Daenerys said, regarding Sansa. Sansa gave a perfunctory curtsey. A lady's courtesy was her armor, after all. "Varys did not lie—she is lovely," Daenerys remarked to Tyrion, who sat beside her.

"I told you, Princess," he insisted. "Please, have a seat, Lady Stark. You must be exhausted."

Sansa did as told and took a seat in a slender chair across from the princess. "We have left word with your fiance on the amount we request. Should he comply, we will determine a suitable meeting point and return you at once," Tyrion explained.

"How much are you asking?" Sansa asked. She might as well learn her worth.

"Three thousand gold dragons," Daenerys spoke now.

"What will you do with the money, Princess?"

"That is unnecessary for you to know," Daenerys replied. Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Jon look briefly, then quickly turn back to look out the window. "While you are here, you will be my honored guest. You will be given fine clothes and fine food and treated with utmost respect and courtesy. We wish you no harm."

"You are very generous, Princess," Sansa said innocently. Daenerys' violet eyes narrowed, sensing a cut, though she did not remark on it.

"You must be tired. Jon Snow will escort you back to your room. Should you have need of anything, he will be stationed outside of your room. You need only ask, and if possible, we will provide it."

Jon turned sharply. A part of Sansa delighted in his obvious shock; he clearly had not been made aware of this plan.

"Thank you, your highness," Sansa said, and rose to her feet. Jon Snow crossed the room, and led her out into the hall silently.

No eyes stared her down now; it was well after three in the morning, she saw from a clock on the wall. At the stairs, Jon paused, and gestured for her to climb ahead of him. Their eyes met briefly, and he quickly averted his gaze. He was not shy, she thought; he was enraged, his anger barely kept beneath the surface. She hoped her words had hurt him.

With a long, lingering look, she turned, gathered her skirts, and climbed up the stairs, back to her new gilded cage.

She should have been like Arya, and learned to wield a sword. Maybe that would have gotten her freedom, she thought numbly as she walked down the hall, Jon Snow's light footsteps behind her. Arya had been the closest to Jon, and had sneaked off to play with him when they were younger. He had taught her to wield a sword, to aim an arrow, to slit a throat with a dagger.

The rumor had always been that the Targaryens had kidnapped him, but she had always wondered if he had simply run away. Perhaps both were true in their own way.

Without looking back at him, she went into her room, and closed the door in his face.

* * *

At dawn, Daario finally came to relieve him of his watch. Daario had removed his powdered wig, revealing unruly dark hair beneath it, and was dressed in leathers. When he wasn't attempting to seduce Dany, he was practicing with his sword, which he must have been doing just now. Jon wasn't sure when the man slept.

"Your cousin is a beauty, Jon Snow," Daario remarked as he approached him in the hall. "You never mentioned it." His voice was sly, teasing.

"I hardly remembered her," Jon countered. He shifted away from the wall where he had been leaning. Daario arched his brows. "She was but a little girl when I left," he added defensively. When I was taken.

Daario's gaze lingered on the closed door. Sansa was asleep behind that door.

"She is no little girl now," he decided after a moment. "Even Princess Daenerys was bewitched by her."

"She is to be married to Lord Dickon Tarly. Half her value comes from that marriage contract," Jon reminded him. He did not like Daario's tone, and Daario, after all, had quite a reputation. "See that you remember that."

"You don't think Tarly has had a taste yet? I wouldn't be able to stop myself."

Jon wondered if Sansa was awake and could hear them. You are dishonorable.

"It doesn't matter," he said bluntly. "Stay out of her room and do your job."

He brushed past Daario before the Tyroshi could speak any more distasteful words and went to his own quarters. Being Daenerys' blood, he had been given his own room, unlike the others. Even Tyrion was forced to share. The house was just barely big enough for their group. It made it hard to remember that Dany really didn't have as many followers as they needed, when they were so overcrowded like this.

He shed his waistcoat and dropped it on his writing desk. The last of a fire was burning, embers barely glowing. At the window, he looked out at the misty dawn. Fatigue hit suddenly, leaving him breathless, and he leaned his forehead against the cold glass, closing his eyes.

He should never have gone back to Winterfell.

The door opened and shut quietly. He didn't have to look back to know who it was.

"Your cousin is beautiful." Dany's voice was softer than usual. He felt her stand behind him and wrap her arms around his waist. "You never said."

"Daario said the same," Jon remarked, feeling her hands trace downward. He reflexively reached down and gripped her wrist, stopping her progress. She liked when he was rough with her.

"He also said I am more beautiful than her."

Jon kept his eyes closed and his grip tight on her wrist. He felt her struggle to wrench out of his grip, and when that didn't work, she rubbed her body against his, her soft breasts pushing against his back.

None of the men who followed Dany were married. Davos had once been married, though he had lost his wife. All of them—perhaps even Davos; Jon could not be sure—would have died for the chance to feel Dany writhe against them. But she never entered their rooms. She only sneaked into his. Jon wondered if respect for his bloodline was really the reason he had his own room.

It was wrong, in the eyes of the world and in the eyes of god, but he wasn't sure why anymore. It had been so many years since she had first touched him. She kissed his back, and he felt it through his shirt. His grip on her wrist loosened and she flattened her hand against him and traced downward, and the blood rushed south, between his legs, as her hand found his hardness. He bit his lip. "You never say such flattering things to me."

"You have enough flatterers," he ground out as she stroked him.

It was wrong. He was dishonorable, the Stark girl was right. And the Targaryens had wed each other, fucked each other, for hundreds of years, so perhaps he really was no true Stark. His father had been Dany's brother. Jon braced a hand on the cold window. "Stop," he said suddenly. Dany abruptly halted her touches.

"What's the matter?" She sounded hurt.

"I'm tired," he lied. "I won't be of much use."

"I don't want to use you," she balked. He turned to face her; she was in her nightdress, and he could see her nipples through the sheer fabric. Her silvery blonde hair tumbled about her shoulders.

If she really wanted the throne, she'd have to marry. But would anyone suitable ever marry her, if word of their actions ever got out?

Maybe they wouldn't lose the throne because of guns or soldiers or supporters. Maybe what they did in bed would lose Dany the throne.

"It was just an expression," he said finally, Dany's violet eyes searching his face. "You should sleep too."

She never slept in his bed. They couldn't risk being discovered. Even her being here, at dawn, was a risk.

He wondered if everyone knew anyway.

He wondered what the Stark girl would think, if she knew just how dishonorable he really was.

* * *

Note: this is also posted at AO3.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sansa slept fitfully. The hot wine had made her mouth dry, and her body still hurt from everything she had been through, and the featherbed was lumpy and uneven. When she could take it no longer, she slipped out of bed. Jon Snow's cloak still lay discarded on a chair, and for want of a dressing gown, she pulled that on for modesty, before knocking on the door.

"Jon Snow?" she called through the wood.

The door unlocked and opened, revealing the handsome man who had been wearing the powdered wig. He wasn't wearing the wig now, and without it he looked more of a rogue warrior, like Jon Snow, and less like the slightly ridiculous courtier who had been standing in the parlor. He was dressed for riding and had a sword sheathed at his hip.

"Jon Snow's shift ended, my lady," he said. "He's sleeping. But I can serve your needs. My name is Daario." There was something insinuating in his voice that made her skin crawl.

"I wanted some water," she said. His deep blue eyes lingered on Jon Snow's cloak that she clutched around her shoulders.

"Of course, my lady. I will send for some."

He left, locking the door, and Sansa ripped off Jon Snow's cloak and cast it on a light blue velvet chaise, where it seemed to taunt her. She went to the window, staring out at the unfamiliar land. She could not even pick out what direction was north, with all this rain and snow.

She squared her shoulders. There was no need to panic. She would likely be gone by this evening. Surely the Tarlys would not stand for this.

Never mind the tiny, creeping voice in her head: _just like you thought Father would not stand for your captivity. Just like you thought Robb would not stand for it. You kept the faith for years...and no one ever came._

The knock came and the door opened. Sansa hastily snatched up Jon Snow's cloak once more to cover herself as Daario entered, bearing a cup of water.

"My lady, your water," he said with a flourish, his blue eyes lingering a little too long on her form. She held the cloak tighter and took the cup from him.

"Has there been word from my husband?"

"You have no husband…yet," Daario teased. "And I doubt we'll hear anything from Lord Tarly for a week at least. You would do best to settle in, my lady."

"Of course," she said lightly, and she turned away from him. _A week_.

"You seem rather carefree for a woman who has just been abducted."

"Lord Tarly and his son fought hard for my hand," she said, still facing away from Daario, her back burning with his gaze. "They won't be so quick to give me up."

"Three thousand gold dragons is quite a lot of money. I wonder if the Tarlys have so much as that."

"They will find a way."

"Maybe. Maybe not." He paused. "Is that Snow's cloak?" There was a creeping interest in his voice.

"I-I am not sure." Sansa turned back to him. "It was given to me on the way here."

"It _is_ Snow's cloak," Daario realized. "What a complicated man he is. He'd give you the cloak off his back even as he steals you from your beloved fiancé."

A memory surfaced, of Jon Snow handing the fish he'd caught to her little brother Bran, as Bran cried over the empty hook on the end of his own fishing line. Sansa felt a stab of rage, but she did not know where it had come from. What did it matter that he had once given her little brother a fish? That hardly canceled out abducting her on behalf of a pretender to the throne.

"Yes, he is very thoughtful and generous," she said, her tone polite, though she felt nothing but anger and acid. Daario's brows arched in amusement.

"Careful now, Lady Stark. You'll find more of a kind heart in Snow than in the rest of us—even in sweet Princess Daenerys. And who knows—you might be here long enough that you'll find need of a kind heart after all."

Sansa held her chin up. She would not be cowed by this ridiculous man.

"My Lord husband will come for me."

"Or perhaps we'll have to come for him."

Daario left her there, with Snow's cloak and the silver goblet of water. Sansa drank from it with a shaking hand and trembling lips.

 _What if…_

No. She couldn't think like that. This wasn't like King's Landing, where she had been an unwilling captive for so many years. Things were different now, and Dickon loved her. He would move mountains to save her.

 _But why should he love me? We barely know each other._

"No," she breathed, shaking her head, pacing once more. She couldn't doubt him, couldn't doubt his love for her.

If she didn't have his love, then she had nothing else.

 _You actually are as stupid as you seem_ , Cersei's voice echoed in her head. _You stupid girl_ , Joffrey had shrieked, laughing at her.

Three thousand gold dragons _was_ quite a lot of money.

And what if Dickon didn't even know where she was? Jon Snow and his men had lost them all too easily. How could he storm the holdfast, if he didn't know where it was?

A week.

Perhaps Daario was simply trying to upset her. She'd seen such tactics before. Perhaps he was simply trying to break her spirit, to guarantee she would not attempt escape. Cersei had done it to her, ten years before, and it had worked all too well. She had been such an obedient little captive.

A week.

She had thought she'd only be captive in King's Landing for a week, once upon a time. That week had turned into weeks, to months, to years, to forever, somehow.

...She needed a plan.

* * *

"We're meeting the Tarlys in neutral territory, near Moat Cailin." Tyrion poured himself more wine from a Dornish bottle. Dany was reclining on a pink silk chaise, having her calves massaged by Jorah who knelt at her feet. She'd been riding that morning, on her silver horse. Jon thought of her sliding her hands down his body mere hours earlier, and turned away. He felt like a fool, though he was not quite sure why.

"Moat Cailin isn't neutral territory," he said, staring out at the rain. All they did was make empty plans and watch the rain and drink wine. "If the Tarlys know anything—"

"—They'll bring the Boltons, yes," Tyrion said dryly. He took a long swig of wine. Jon wondered how much of their three thousand gold dragons—if they ever got them—would exclusively be used to fund Tyrion's wine habit. "Which is why we're bringing _you_. You wear the honorable Lord Eddard Stark's face…if not his name."

"I also just kidnapped his daughter," Jon pointed out tersely, finally turning around. Tyrion chose to ignore him.

"Lord Tarly won't send his beloved beautiful boy. I imagine they'll be using this as an opportunity to track us back to this holdfast. Jon and Daario will mislead them in the opposite direction after we have had our negotiations."

"They won't negotiate. Lord Tarly—" Jon began stubbornly, but Tyrion cut him off.

"—Lord Tarly has been given the terms. If he wants Sansa Stark back—"

"—But he won't want her back. I told you. They've already got Winterfell."

"They'll never keep Winterfell without a Stark," Dany reasoned. "No matter what, they will want Sansa Stark back."

Jon turned back to look at the rain. Daario pushed himself off the wall.

"We've got six days. Might be we should practice our swordsmanship, Jon Snow?"

Daario unsheathed his sword, the blade glinting in the candlelight. He was looking at Jorah.

"Yes," Jon said, eager to get out, eager to _do_ something, _anything_.

Jon changed into his leathers and met Daario in the courtyard by the stables. The rain had lightened to a fine drizzle. It was warmer than yesterday, but no less miserable. He turned to face Daario.

"Lady Stark is rather confident that her prince will come storm our holdfast," Daario remarked as both men drew their swords.

She had always been a daydreamer, a naïve and sweet little girl. Jon shook his head.

"He might." _Clang_. The first clash of swords. Daario was a good opponent, though Jorah was probably the best at dueling. Grey Worm was talented at fighting to kill, not fighting for sport. "The Tarlys are proud. He'll be insulted that we took her." He was just repeating Tyrion's reasoning, bleating helplessly like a sheep. He swung harder.

Jon and Daario had been the only ones to be skeptical of Tyrion and Dany's plan to take Sansa Stark hostage—Jon because he knew the ways of lords, and Daario because he knew the ways of men.

"Is it hard, having a Stark in the house?" _Clang._ Jon's steps were careful, methodical, as he remembered his training. They were moving through the forms easily enough.

"No." _Clang_. He spun in place, and hit Daario's blade with the flat of his.

"Do you think the Lannisters will come looking for us?" _Clang._

"Yes." _Clang_. They were moving faster now. _Clang. Clang_.

"I wonder who will find us first: Jaime Lannister, or Dickon Tarly."

"Couldn't say." _Clang_. "We're well hidden here. They might never find us." _Clang._

"I hope they both find us at once. I'd love a good fight." _Clang._ "And barring that, a good fuck." _Clang._ "It's been weeks."

Hands tracing down his body, a wet mouth on his skin. Jon screwed up his face and hit harder. He felt sick to his stomach. _Clang. Clang_.

"We'll be south soon enough," Jon said.

"I've never fucked a northern lady." _Clang_. "Have you?"

"No." _Clang._

"Ah. I would've liked to hear a comparison. Pity."

They didn't speak as their forms sped up and the clangs turned into wild clashes, a storm of noise filling the courtyard. His muscles burned and his lungs ached, but it felt good. Jon thought he might lose his mind, cooped up in this bloody holdfast.

 _I hope they find us too,_ he realized. It was a darker impulse. They'd spent so many years on the run, just barely dodging danger. _Let the worst happen. Let the other shoe drop, finally._

"Snow."

They dropped their swords, both men's chests heaving, breaths clouding, as they looked at the door leading to the courtyard. Rainwater blurred Jon's vision and he wiped at his eyes. It was Davos. "It's your shift," he said. "I need some food and a nap." The older man went back inside, and Jon looked up to the window on the second storey. The Stark girl's window. A pale shadow moved away from the window.

She'd been watching them.

"I think you're afraid of her, Snow," Daario remarked. "I wonder why."

"I think you talk too much." Jon sheathed Longclaw and wiped his forehead, and went inside, leaving Daario standing in the rain.

* * *

There were low voices outside her door, and Sansa crept to the door, pressing her ear against it to listen.

"…Until supper. I wonder if we should tell the girl?" That was Davos.

"It's unnecessary," Jon Snow replied shortly. "It doesn't change anything."

Davos' heavier footfalls disappeared down the hall, and the floor creaked with a man's weight. Jon Snow was stationed outside her door again.

She'd watched him in the courtyard. Sansa had spent her life watching men with swords, men with dirks, men with guns. She knew what a good killer looked like. Even when they had been children, her father had often spoken of Jon Snow's skill with a sword. Watching him earlier had filled her with dread. _He wears no fine waistcoats and has no manners but he knows how to kill._ She was not sure that Dickon knew how to kill.

A soft knock startled her. Sansa hastily combed at her hair and straightened her dress.

"Come in," she said as levelly, and with as much dignity as she could muster. The knob turned, revealing Jon Snow in riding leathers, still soaked from training outside.

"Princess Daenerys will dine with you tonight." His expression was stony.

 _Oh, will she?_ Another stab of fury. Sansa turned away quickly, before he could see her feelings on her face. She could not seem to draw a full breath. He might as well have said that Queen Cersei would dine with her.

"Shall I receive her here?" Sarcasm leaked from her voice, and she felt her face grow hot. She heard a soft scoff, and she looked back at him.

"I will escort you to her rooms when it is time."

"Thank you," she said stiffly. A sudden madness seized her. She ought to have kept quiet. "…What did Davos wish to tell me?"

She swallowed over a lump in her throat, and turned to fully face him. His eyes were cast down, and she watched his fist tighten, briefly. When he looked at her again, however, his eyes were soft. He pitied her.

"He ...wanted to tell you that we'll be meeting with Lord Tarly in six nights' time. To negotiate your release."

There was a funny swooping sensation in her belly, and she gripped the edge of the table next to the window. Her legs had gone weak, silly things.

"S-six days?"

A week, nearly.

Daario hadn't been lying.

She hated the pity in his eyes. "Why six days?" she blurted desperately, her eyes stinging. Six days in captivity, with nowhere to go, nothing to do but wait…

"I couldn't say. I have little experience with ransoms."

There was some ice in his voice. _Perhaps the Targaryens offered a ransom, and Father never paid it?_ she wondered, studying him. She wondered how long he'd waited for the Starks to rescue him, wondered when he'd given up hope and let himself become a Targaryen.

"W-well," she blustered, smoothing her skirts, "I'm sure it must take time to amass so much gold."

"Yes, I'm sure." Jon Snow rested his hands on his belt, and looked down again, biting his soft lower lip. It was easier, in this light, to see the scars on his face. How had he gotten them? He'd been such a green, gentle boy when he'd left them. Or rather, taken, she mentally corrected. He wouldn't look at her now. Her legs felt numb again. _He doesn't think they'll pay,_ she realized, the knowledge ringing clear as a bell.

"Please leave me," she demanded, turning away quickly. She felt like she could not breathe. "I-I must be alone."

"Yes, Lady Stark."

He didn't move right away. She felt his presence like a fire at her back, and she gripped the windowsill, willing herself not to cry. _Courtesy is a lady's armor. Dignity is her sword_.

At long last she heard the door click shut, and she was left alone, as she had requested. She couldn't breathe. Six days. Her wedding was in thirteen days. Would it even happen, now? Even if they did indeed return her in six days, the Tarlys would be out three thousand gold dragons. Weddings were costly, of course. She didn't know if they even had three thousand gold dragons.

The Tarlys were rich. But how rich? Were they rich enough to buy her back?

 _No._

 _...No._

She had not suffered for so many years, biding her time, only to trade one captor for another. She had waited too long. Perhaps the Tarlys had bought her for her name and for the lands that came with her, but she knew Dickon could love her.

Even if he didn't yet, he could come to love her.

If she didn't have that, then she'd have nothing.

She would not let this ridiculous Beggar Princess take love, a wedding, her happiness, away from her.

A strange calm settled over her, and she stood straight once again, still staring into the rain. The rage melted away.

They were mere hours of riding from Winterfell. Even if she didn't know precisely where she was, she knew enough of the land to be able to find her way to someone who could help her. She needed to leave, and what was more, she needed to leave soon...just in case Dickon was planning to storm the holdfast; just in case they really were trying to amass the gold. She needed to get back to Dickon before he tried to save her, through steel or through gold.

And if she could do that, perhaps he'd love her even more.

But beside all of that, she could not help but think of the swordsmanship she had seen in the courtyard just now.

It wouldn't take so many disciplined men to storm this holdfast. But it would take only one man to kill Dickon.

And she had just witnessed one man who clearly knew how to kill.

* * *

"If only it had been more difficult to track them. I would have liked a challenge," Lord Baelish sighed, rolling up the map of the north. "I've informed Lord Tarly, and he is doing his part as we speak." Varys sighed behind him, shaking his head.

"Your brother was supposed to be the clever one, too," the eunuch said sorrowfully. He turned to Jaime with a questioning, curious look. "I wonder, will it be hard to march on your beloved brother's holdfast and tear down his dreams of a Targaryen restoration?"

Jaime didn't bother to respond to Varys' question. The eunuch reeked of lavender and it made his head spin.

"I'll be glad when this is over," he finally said.

He had forbid them from inviting Cersei to this little chat. As far as most knew, Tyrion had died years ago. It was best for Cersei if she believed Tyrion dead.

"You'll want to attack in five days' time, at dawn. They're low on food, and they won't go hunting or sneak into town until Friday, on Winter Town's market day. They'll be hungry and weak. A sellsword named Daario does the dawn watch, and he's usually drunk or asleep," Varys informed them.

"Bloody sellswords," Bronn said with heavy irony, but Jaime couldn't bring himself to laugh.

"We'll have to leave in two days," Jaime said, thinking of the map. It would take more than a day and a half of fast riding to get to the holdfast, and he'd need to bring a large force to ensure they took the holdfast quickly and efficiently. If he wanted to be ready to leave by Monday, he'd have to begin making preparations at once. "Bronn, let's go."

"You seem tense. I've never known you to dread a battle," Bronn remarked, following Jaime out of Lord Baelish's study. One of Baelish's maids, a pretty dark-eyed thing, handed them their cloaks and hats, and then they were on the street. The palace loomed large ahead of them, a glittering thing in the sun. The streets around them shimmered and stank with heat and rot. It was too hot for their cloaks, but Bronn had told him it would be prudent to hide their fine silk waistcoats, to dress plainly and anonymously, when visiting Lord Baelish.

"This will be no battle." They fell into step together, walking back towards the palace. Around them, the ruin of King's Landing was only too evident. Jaime felt the vitriol of the people all too well, and he was grateful that his Lannister hair and silks were hidden from view.

"Rather handy that it's the Stark girl being held captive," Bronn said lightly. "Can't help but wonder how that happened." He had given voice to Jaime's exact thoughts. "Can't help but think that's all rather convenient for Littlefinger. Wasn't he the one who sold her to Tarly in the first place?"

If he were as clever as Tyrion, he'd devise a way to find out Baelish and Varys' real motives. And if he were as ruthless as his father, he'd find a way to double-cross them and seize it all for himself. Alas, he might be ruthless, but he had no plans. Daenerys Targaryen had been a problem for too long, and it was his task to solve that problem before it threatened the king's life.

As long as Cersei and Tywin didn't know about Tyrion, he could still handle it on his own, the way he wanted to.

* * *

Sansa took care to make herself lovely as she could for her supper with the Beggar Princess. She had to keep up appearances. She wore the blue gown, and pinched her cheeks to bring out the color. She needed to look innocent.

She needed to be able to extract information from them tonight, during this meal.

It would be easier if Tyrion did not dine with them. The man was too clever by half; she had learned as much during her captivity in King's Landing. Even the wrong word, the wrong tone, might alert him to her plans, and then she'd be watched even more closely.

The knock came, and Jon Snow appeared to escort her to supper.

"Is it still raining? I couldn't tell; it's so dark," she said by way of greeting as she rose from the little vanity table, pretending she had merely been brushing her hair. Jon Snow was clad in his dark waistcoat, looking more like a man and less like a warrior, and for some reason, it irritated her. _You're no lord,_ she thought furiously.

"I've been standing here for hours, Lady Stark. I can see outside no better than you can," he reminded her, as she shut the door behind herself and joined him in the hall. The house was filled with the scent of roast capon, and she could hear men's voices downstairs.

"Of course. I wonder if it will turn back to snow again," she replied lightly. They fell into step as they walked down the hall. Silver tapers had been lit, casting the hall in a ghostly glow. In the dim light it was harder to see just how shabby this place was. Sansa covertly peered around. She could find no house banners or heraldry in sight, save for the Targaryen dragons. Who had this place belonged to?

Jon Snow said nothing. He'd never been much of a conversationalist. "So, how long have you been in this...house?" she tried again politely.

"A fortnight."

He gestured for her to descend the stairs ahead of him.

"And where were you before that?"

"South."

Downstairs the scent of roast capon and mushrooms was stronger, and her stomach growled. A few men clad in shabby uniforms came from the kitchens and peered at her with interest. Their skin was dark, which meant they were from across the Narrow Sea. The rumor was that Daenerys had stolen an army, but she had yet to see enough men for an army. They must all sleep in the stables, she decided.

That would make things harder for her. If they were all in the stables, it'd be that much harder to get a horse, and without a horse she'd never make it back to Winterfell.

They paused outside of the dining room, with Jon Snow's hand on the doorknob. For the moment, they were alone in the hall. He faced Sansa, studying her carefully. She saw him swallow, watched his Adam's apple move above the silk of his collar. He looked about to speak, but the door opened, shoving him back. Daario appeared, in his ridiculous light blue wig and a splendid blue jacquard waistcoat.

"Why, are you intending to make Lady Stark starve out here, Snow?" Daario stepped aside and gestured for Sansa to enter. "Come, dine with us. The wine is already flowing."

The dining room was just as dimly lit. Princess Daenerys was seated at the head of the table, in an opulent silver dress that was a year or two out of fashion. Tyrion sat at her right, Jorah Mormont at the other end of the table next to Daavos, and Missandei next to Tyrion.

"Lady Stark," Daenerys said. "Please, have a seat and dine with me and my bloodriders." Bloodriders. That was a Dothraki term, Sansa knew. She gave a curtsey—Jorah, Daario, Davos, and Tyrion all rose from their seats and, all looking rather amused by this show of manners, bowed back to her. Missandei gave a smooth curtsey.

"I forgot what it was like to be around a true lady," Tyrion said wryly when they had all seated themselves again. Jon Snow took his time to sit. Sansa did not miss how Daenerys' lovely violet eyes followed his movements hungrily...the way a lady's eyes might follow her husband's form. She had heard the rumors of the Targaryens, but part of her hadn't wanted to believe such horrific tales. To bed one's own blood...

"Is your Princess not the finest example of a lady?" Sansa asked him as Tyrion poured her wine. Jon Snow sat next to her. She wished she could move her chair. Daario snorted into his glass of wine.

"Yes, no lady quite like the princess," he sniggered, looking to Daenerys with twinkling eyes. The princess flushed with pleasure.

"I'm rather too rough and wild to be a lady in the traditional sense, I'm afraid. I've always been rather bored by needlework and dancing," she said. "But I am told you are the consummate lady."

It wasn't a compliment. Sansa smoothed her features into a mask. _Perhaps you should not dismiss consummate ladies so quickly, Princess._ Cersei had always been filled with contempt for other women, too.

"I aim to be, your highness." She took a sip of the wine to buy herself an excuse not to speak. She couldn't help but notice that Jon Snow drank no wine. As a boy he'd hated dancing, hated parties. He had never been good at fitting in. "And as any lady, I take an interest in politics," she continued carefully, when she set her goblet down again. All eyes were on her. "I have…heard rumors that you plan to ascend the Iron Throne."

"As is my birthright," Daenerys shot back immediately. "The Usurper must answer for his theft. When I have-" she halted quickly, at a sharp look from Tyrion. Clearing her throat, she continued. "—When I arrive at King's Landing, I will offer him the chance to surrender."

Daenerys had clearly never met Joffrey. Sansa, however, knew him rather well. Too well. She smiled, enjoying the suspicion that clouded those lovely violet eyes.

"I'm sure he will relent at once, your highness."

"…The Lady Stark was once betrothed to the Usurper, if I recall," Daario remarked. "You must have gotten to know him quite well."

"Why did your betrothal break?" Daenerys cut in, looking to her sharply.

Just the memory made her sick. She did not want to speak of it.

"I—"

"Where is Grey Worm?" Jon Snow cut in suddenly, effectively saving her from answering. She wondered if it had been intentional or not, but such a motion of sensitivity and empathy seemed unlike him, to her.

"On watch duty. You know how he hates a good capon," Tyrion snorted, before taking a bite of his own.

"Watch duty?" Sansa queried, politely cutting into her capon.

"We are, technically, on the run," explained Tyrion, gesturing with his wine. "As you may have gathered, we've made just a few enemies in our quest."

"But more than half the great houses support my claim," Daenerys said feverishly. She'd barely touched her food. "They raise their goblets and toast in secret to the restoration of the Targaryen dynasty. I know it."

Sansa looked between the men at the table. Jorah was a Mormont, Tyrion a Lannister, and Jon technically a Stark. Daenerys might have had some of the great houses at her table tonight, but they were all liars, Sansa decided. No one talked of a Targaryen restoration—at least not that she had ever heard. The Targaryen reign had been madness, and no one wished its resurrection. The men at this table were either fools or liars…or, perhaps, prisoners, just like her, for she also did not speak up to contradict Daenerys' certainty.

"How did you come upon this holdfast?" Sansa asked, changing the subject before Daenerys could return to the topic of her prior betrothal to Joffrey.

"It was...donated," Tyrion interjected with a sly grin.

"It is a most generous donation." _Damn._ Tyrion would make sure they gave no clues as to how far from Winterfell they were, or which direction they'd ridden. He also, she noticed, would not let Daenerys speak for herself.

"And what is your plan for the Targaryen restoration?" She smiled at Daenerys. "In general terms, I mean. How do you occupy your time?"

"We've been at a standstill," Daenerys said rather stiffly. "Without more gold, we can hardly make any political moves. Even crossing the Narrow Sea was difficult. We're trying to raise supporters, and we have many who support my claim, but without an army..."

"It must be difficult," Sansa sympathized. She took a long swig of her wine. She could feel everyone studying her-particularly Tyrion and Jon Snow. "Do you travel around the country much?"

"It is unsafe for me to show my face much yet," Daenerys admitted, shooting a scowl at Jorah. This was, evidently, a rather sore point. "My bloodriders have been seeking out supporters each day."

So then Daenerys herself was here at the holdfast often, but it seemed that the others might leave during the day. She doubted Tyrion would leave-most of the country thought him dead, and besides, he had been hated by so many, and was so easily recognized-but the others, particularly Jorah and Daario, would be likely to lead such searches. Jon Snow might as well, as he had Northern blood and looked strikingly like a Stark. The Northern houses might welcome a face so like that of Eddard Stark.

"Every day? All of you go from house to house?" Sansa feigned shock. "That sounds exhausting."

"Yes, but it will be worth it when we have enough gold for our army," Jorah said now. Sansa took another long swig of her wine. _Thank you,_ Jorah Mormont, she thought. _Now I know that you all leave the house for long hours during the day_.

"I've heard you already have an army. Rumors do circulate in the capital."

"I have the Unsullied, from my time across the Narrow Sea, but we've lost so many men," Daenerys confessed. "Many fell ill on the voyage across the Narrow Sea."

"Do they all stay here?"

"You're a curious little bird, aren't you?" Tyrion interjected, marveling at her over his goblet of wine, his mismatched eyes glittering. "I would suggest caution, my princess. Lady Sansa Stark is far cleverer than she lets on."

"Clever?" Sansa laughed. "Lord Lannister, I have spent the past fifteen years doing little more than needlework and dancing. I would sooner call your horses clever before I would describe myself with such a flattering term."

"You fooled my sister," Tyrion mused, still studying her. "For a time, at least."

She was moving into dangerous waters. She needed to tread far more carefully.

"I would never dream of attempting to fool Cersei Lannister," she said quietly, setting down her fork and looking down miserably at her plate. All eyes were on her.

She had learned enough from her time in King's Landing to know that often you dug your own grave when you spoke too much. Better to keep silent.

"I see you are traumatized, as anyone would be, from spending so many years with my sweet sister," Tyrion said. Sansa flicked her gaze up to him, then quickly back down. "I apologize; I am sure I have stirred unpleasant memories." Tyrion poured her more wine. "Let us ignore politics for a while, Lady Stark. It has truly been far too long since we had a real lady in our midst; we might as well enjoy it while you're here."

The rest of the supper passed innocently enough. Daenerys was far more talkative when talk of horses came up, and Sansa was able to learn that the other men didn't sleep in the stables, as she had originally guessed, but rather in an old granary behind the house. The stables were packed with horses, she learned, and Daenerys went riding whenever they thought it safe enough-often early in the mornings, near dawn.

Jon Snow hardly spoke a word, but Sansa saw that Daenerys' gaze was constantly drawn back helplessly to him, enraptured by him.

The passion, she also saw, seemed to only flow in one direction. Jon Snow hardly looked at her; in fact, he hardly looked up from his food, though he ate little.

At last, near midnight, with her head buzzing with all of the wine, he escorted her back to her room. The halls were silent; as they walked, Sansa tried to memorize the layout of the house from what she could glean. She would likely have to leave through the window, but if she had the opportunity, leaving through the house might be safer.

The tapers had all blown out; the only light was the thin slats of moonlight coming in from the window at the end of the hall adjacent to her room.

"Your princess is very kind," Sansa said politely in the dark as they paused outside of her door. "And quite beautiful."

Jon Snow did not react to her words.

"Davos will be taking the watch tonight," he said instead. He opened the door for her. "Good night, Lady Stark."

"Good night, Jon Snow," she replied politely.

She waited for hours, until her eyes burned with exhaustion and she knew that Davos was relaxed-perhaps even nodding off outside her door.

And then she set to work.

* * *

Dany was waiting in his room when he opened the door, and he had to quickly shut the door and lock it. She was waiting on his bed, naked.

"You did not have much to say tonight," she remarked. Jon ignored her and went to his wardrobe, where he shrugged off his waistcoat and hung it on a hook inside. It was the only item of clothing not meant for fighting or riding that he owned.

"I thought we agreed you would come here less often," he said quietly. He sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots and breeches. The mattress shifted as Dany sat up behind him, and kissed his back, along his spine.

"Are you questioning my choices?" she bristled. Jon stared out the window into the night. He thought of Sansa locked in her room.

"If anyone found out..."

"...When I am queen it will not matter," Dany said against his neck. "A man can bed whomever he wants. Why can't I?"

They had had this argument before. Jon was weary of it.

"It could cost you everything. Everything that we've worked for."

"It won't. No one knows."

* * *

Dany had only just slipped out of his room, near dawn, when there was a pounding on his door. Jon was washing himself, and startled at the noise. He immediately began to panic-Dany would wake the whole house at this point-but then his door flew open, and it was Davos and Jorah, not Dany.

"Sorry, Snow," Jorah said as they entered his room quickly, shutting the door behind them. Jon snatched his shirt and covered himself with it.

"Er-I wasn't expecting a visitor," he confessed. Jorah's gaze took in the mussed sheets, Jon's naked state, and his wild hair, but he said nothing.

"We have a problem that the princess can't know about," Davos said in a low voice. "The Stark girl is gone."

As was always the case in crisis, Jon's heart seemed to slow, and his panic ceased. That curious calm overtook him, the same calm that he got when fighting.

"When?" He moved backward, still covering himself with his shirt, and pawed through his wardrobe for his riding leathers. He would need to leave to follow her at once.

"We think she's been gone a half hour. There was a commotion in the stables, and Daario left his post at the front gate and went to check. When he returned, there were tracks from a horse, one of the horses was missing, and the gate was left open. He noticed the Stark girl's window was open, so he came to check. I heard nothing," Daavos explained, baffled.

"We need to fetch the girl without letting the Princess know," Jorah said. "You and Grey Worm-"

"-I'll go alone. It will be faster, and easier to catch her. Less noise," Jon said, pulling on his breeches.

For some reason he felt responsible for the Stark girl, like she belonged to him, like this was his fault.

* * *

Sansa had carefully led the horse round to the other side of the house, away from the stables, and tied the horse to a post in the kitchen garden with shaking hands.

She had never done anything like this before.

She'd always done as told, never rebelled, always acted the great lady. This was Arya-like behavior. This wasn't Sansa behavior.

Clad in Jon Snow's traveling cloak, she had crept back to the stables, trying to soak in the damp heat as much as possible-for the air smelled like impending snow and if she got lost she had every chance of freezing to death.

The horses kicked and whickered as she sneaked to a stack of buckets at one end of the stables, against which leaned a few pitchforks. It was this or nothing. She needed to draw Daario away from the front gate without making him raise the alarm. Just enough of a commotion to catch his attention, without catching his concern.

Her arms were still shaking from climbing down the rope-blanket she had fashioned, as she pushed the tower of buckets over. She darted out the back end of the stables. Heart pounding, she crouched around the corner behind the low wall, waiting for Daario to walk past.

And sure enough, he did. Holding a rifle, his dirk sheathed at his hip, Daario crossed the courtyard slowly, on silent feet. If she hadn't been watching for him, she would never have heard him, and she felt a prickle of fear. The odds were completely against her-she didn't even know how to ride these great big war horses.

But she couldn't think like that.

She'd spent so much of her life playing the lady. It had been how she had survived in King's Landing for so many years...playing dumb, playing innocent, playing the foolish, naive girl. It might have kept her alive but it had also kept her stuck.

She needed to save herself this time.

Once Daario disappeared into the stable, she turned and fled. She was wearing slippers but had cut up the sheets to wrap around her feet for warmth, and they made for silent footsteps as she ran. They weren't nearly warm enough but as long as she made good time to Winterfell it wouldn't matter. She went to the front gate and slowly pushed it open, then vaulted herself onto the horse, which was mistrustful of her, and with a burst of speed, barreled through the front gate, clutching desperately to the horse, praying she didn't fall off.

Winterfell wasn't more than an hour and a half away. She just needed to make it to Winterfell, and then she would be free.


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa did not look back; she rode along the path as fiercely as she could, though the motion hurt and her thighs chafed quickly. The sky was growing lighter now, and the rain was beginning to turn to ice as the temperature unexpectedly dropped.

She was soaked and she couldn't stop shaking, but for a time she hardly noticed it. Her mind raced: she ought to be covering her tracks, but how? She ought to be taking a roundabout path, but she was barely even certain that she was going in the right direction.

She'd initially been confident, even when the path had disappeared, because everything had looked familiar. But when she looked round, it all looked the same, in all directions. Rolling, tangled moors stretched far as she could see, growing ever treacherous as the freezing rain came down harder. Soon she could barely see; she was riding blindly.

The shadow of looming woods approached, and her heart gave a great leap. They'd certainly come through woods...at some point... Sansa pulled to a stop beneath the thin cover of trees at the forest's edge, grateful for a moment of respite from the ice.

The woods were gnarled and tangled. She wasn't even sure she'd be able to lead the horse through these woods...

 _I'll go on foot_ , she decided. It would be harder to track her, wouldn't it? She wore no thick boots, and if she left the horse here at the forest's edge, it might leave a little mystery as to how and where she had continued...

She dismounted and sloppily tied the horse to the closest tree. The poor animal shouldn't have to suffer for her; her only comfort was that she knew they'd find the horse eventually. And so she ran into the black woods.

* * *

The horse had left deep gashes in the loose gravel of the path leading away from the house. As far as Jon could tell, she'd gone due northeast.

Wrapped in a thick cloak and leathers, with a bow and arrow and his dirk, Jon set off on her trail. A rifle would make too much noise and would be too hard to aim; the arrows would let him take down the horse, if need be. He did not like the idea of maiming one of their own horses, but Sansa was worth—hopefully—three thousand gold dragons. They could easily sacrifice a horse for that.

The rain had turned to freezing rain at dawn, and was now steadily thickening into snow. It would cover the tracks; he had to be swift.

Sansa had evidently taken one of the farming horses that had come with the holdfast. They might be big and strong, but they were slow. Had she known anything about horses she might have made a different selection—she must have taken one look at the horse's size and stature and assumed that the horse would have more endurance. One of the ponies would have been a better choice.

At a canter he took the moors. For a time he was able to follow her horse's tracks, but soon they disappeared into the white. It did not matter. She was going in a straight line, heading toward the woods, which loomed in the distance, blurred by the snow.

One of the big horses was tied by its reins at the forest's edge, and it reared and screamed when Jon approached. She must have thought she could lose him in the dark forest, but nothing could have been further from the truth. Jon dismounted and tied his own horse. He'd have a job of getting them back to the holdfast, especially with the Stark girl, but once he entered the forest this worry dissolved and his mind cleared. There was nothing before him but the tangled wood, and the tracks she had made in the mud.

He might be known as a dragon, but he'd always been a wolf, too. Jon filtered through the trees like the falling snow, just as silent.

Then he heard it: frantic gasping, twigs snapping, branches crackling like burning logs. And a flash of copper, vibrant as blood, between the trees, flashing like a spectre.

He had her.

* * *

She didn't know where she was, or where she had come from, or where she ought to go.

The wood was silent and unforgiving. For a time, she prayed to the Seven as she ran; her father had kept the old gods and frequented the godswood in Winterfell, but Sansa had taken after her mother and worshipped the Seven. Through her captivity in King's Landing, the Sept had been her refuge. Perhaps they'd hear her now...even if this were the country of the old gods.

But her feet were numb, and the fabric she had tied round her slippers had fallen away, and she couldn't feel her fingers, and she did not know where to go, and so she gave up praying. No one was listening.

Like an animal's instinct, she suddenly felt it: a presence, a ghostly something or someone, somewhere in the wood. Sansa skidded to a stop and fell against a tree, clutching at its rough bark with numb fingers, gasping, and swung her gaze around. She stilled her breath, willing the quiet to come.

The silence was opaque. On shaking limbs she knelt down, slowly, slowly, and picked up a fallen branch, her gaze darting round in desperate search.

There: a shadow. Beyond a low ridge she saw a silent blur of dark, marring the grey wood. Tears sprang to her eyes. It was Jon Snow.

He had her.

It couldn't end like this. Not so soon. She peeled off, knowing that capture was inevitable, knowing that she had already failed. It was over before it had begun. She couldn't save herself.

But she could not quite let go of her hope just yet, so she ran, desperately, choking and gasping. "No," she seethed, stumbling through bramble. It snagged at the heavy traveling cloak—Jon Snow's traveling cloak—and burned her feet with its thorns, and then she was stuck. Furiously she ripped off the cloak, but it did little help: her dress was caught, too many layers of silk and lace. The silk of her dress was soaked with snow and sweat, her hair plastered to her cheeks and neck.

When she got through the bramble, she fell to the ground, still clutching the branch. She rolled onto her back, kicking, to see how far he was.

He had gained on her. He was making his way through the bramble so easily; his cloak was short enough to evade it and the thorns could not catch on his riding leathers. He had a bow and a dirk, and his arrows rattled in their quiver as he moved. His handsome face was mournful; she hated his pity.

"No." She flung herself to her feet once more and turned, swinging the stick. Jon Snow ducked and dodged with ease. He reached out a hand to grab the branch.

"It's over," he told her, sadly, and his gloved hand closed around the end of the branch.

"No!" She was sobbing and she despised herself for it. She wasn't a little girl anymore...and yet, wasn't she? She couldn't even save herself. With a hiss of effort she forced the branch forward, and it smacked him in the face, hard enough that he let go and let out a sharp oath.

She ran again, not looking back. There was a curious whistling sound, and just as she realized it was an arrow, she was suddenly taken down, smacking her cheek on the hard ground.

An arrow pinned her long skirts to the mud. Without a second thought she ripped the silk, but it was too late. Jon Snow lunged. He knocked her back to the ground, impossibly heavy on top of her, and in a blind panic she grappled for the branch and hit his back as hard as she could.

"You can't win this," he growled through his teeth, as she kicked out from under him and scrambled backwards, clutching the branch, gasping for breath as her lungs burned and her head swam.

"I won't be your prisoner!" she sobbed. "I won't. I won't be anyone's prisoner."

"You're Tarly's prisoner, you fool."

"I was going to get my home back. I was going to have someone love me," she despaired. Jon Snow was crouching before her and she clumsily got to her feet, still holding the branch out as though it were a sword. She swung it wildly, and he dodged again.

"If you would just wait a few days' time-"

"—They're never going to save me. No one ever does," she hissed, swinging the branch with another sob. "They are never going to come. They can't pay three thousand gold dragons. You know they can't."

"That's why it's called a negotiation-"

"—They don't need me anymore!" she screamed. Jon froze in place. "They have Winterfell, I know that was all they wanted. But I could have pretended—don't look at me like that! I know you find me pathetic, I know you despise me."

She swung the branch, and this time his grip was true: he caught it and pulled it from her hands, even as he gazed upon her with profound sadness.

"I don't-"

"—You do. I know you do. But you're a prisoner too. Daenerys has no supporters; she will never win the throne. You're just as lost, just as helpless, as I am."

Jon watched her back away from him. Her hands were bleeding and she was shaking violently. "You've taken everything from me. They will never pay my ransom, it's far too much. I was so close to finally having something good."

"We can't keep you forever-"

"-No? Then what? You'll just give me back?" Her laugh was so callous. Jon could only stare helplessly.

He remembered sunlit mornings in the godswood, hearing Sansa singing across Winterfell in the Sept. He remembered her spinning round and round in her pretty dresses, racing through the godswood, breathless and flushed; dancing endlessly at parties with her friend Jeyne. It did not seem possible that that little girl, so innocent and happy and selfish, had grown into this woman before him: bleeding, her soul ripped in half, cornered and desperate as a wild animal. "I can't be a captive again," she began wildly. "I'll kill myself before I am a prisoner again, do you hear me?"

And then she lunged for him. Jon raised his arms to block, but she wasn't attacking him: she ripped his dirk from his belt and then stumbled backwards, unsheathing it.

Panic seized him.

"Sansa," he began carefully, holding out a hand. She shook her head, biting her lip.

"I was a prisoner of the Lannisters for ten years," she said in a low, tight voice that shook with the effort of repressing her sobs. "I was trapped and helpless, and I spent every single day terrified for my life. I was beaten and humiliated, isolated and tormented. I told myself that Father would save me, but they k-killed him."

She was sobbing in earnest now, even as her teeth chattered. Jon couldn't breathe. Eddard Stark's death still haunted him. "Then I t-told myself Robb would save me. But they killed him too. And then all I had left was the hope that s-someone kind would marry me. I spent years waiting, hoping, shunned by nearly everyone for things that had nothing to do with me. And two weeks ago I was given my escape. Dickon Tarly was going to marry me for Winterfell. That was the best I could possibly hope for. But now? They don't need me, and we both know they won't pay more money for me. I know you think I'm stupid. Everyone does. But even I know that they don't need me anymore." She choked out another sob. "Your princess plays her stupid game of thrones, but this stupid game has cost me my last chance at anything remotely resembling happiness. I have _nothing_ left."

There was nothing he could say. She was still holding the dirk, unsheathed, its blade far too close to the soft, vulnerable skin of her wrist. She was shaking violently, her chest heaving, as she swayed in place.

 _You are dishonorable._

She was right. There was no honor in this. And Dany and Tyrion might fool themselves into thinking the Tarlys would pay, but Jon knew better. He had known better from the beginning, but he had gone along with the plan. Why had he done it?

 _You're just as lost, just as helpless, as I am._

He held out his hand.

"Come back with me. I swear that by Sunday you will no longer be our prisoner, one way or the other."

"Why in the name of the S-seven should I ever believe you?" she despaired, gasping at the cold. "You are f-false coin, the falsest c-coin of all. You stole a man's wife from his own home; you bloodied your hands and thought nothing of it. H-how could I ever believe-"

"Because we have no use for you without the ransom you are worth," he interrupted furiously. "You obviously cannot ride, you cannot fight, you cannot hunt. You are another mouth to feed, another liability. And we have made you despise us, so there is always the risk that you will murder us all in our sleep," he continued, his voice growing hoarse. "You may not believe in Daenerys' cause; that is your choice. But I will do whatever I must to support Daenerys. I took a vow."

"A B-bloodrider's vow," Sansa shuddered. "Why would you g-give your own life to an empty cause?"

"Why would you take your own life for a man who bought you?"

The hand holding the dirk dropped. The swinging blade glinted at her side as she silently cried, shaking her head. She swayed dangerously. _If she is out here much longer, she will die._

"It's all useless, stupid hope." Her voice broke. "Even now, I'm s-so stupid, I still h-hope—"

"—You're not stupid." He was standing closer now, and his gloved hand closed round her wrist. His other hand freed the dirk from her fingers. "Lord Tarly is sending a man to meet with us at Moat Cailin on Saturday evening," he said, softer now. "Come back and wait until Saturday."

"I can't go back."

"You can't go forward. You'll freeze before you make it to Winterfell."

She scrunched her eyes shut in pain. She felt weak, lightheaded. Her lips were numb. Something soft and warm brushed her skin, and Sansa opened her eyes; Jon Snow had covered her in his cloak once more. The scent of his skin was heady.

"I'll g-go back on one c-condition. You will change the terms of the ransom and you will show me p-proof."

"You don't have much leverage," he pointed out. Sansa forced a smile with trembling, pale lips.

"There is always the risk that I will murder you all in your sleep."

Jon looked away, biting his soft lower lip. "And," she continued. This was her last bargaining chip, the only card she had left up her sleeve, and she was not even sure it was a true card. "I kn-know…your s-secret. I know what you do…with her."

She tried to look him directly in the eyes. She swallowed as she watched those dark grey eyes widen slightly, watched his breath catch. She had his attention now. Horror dulled by cold rushed through her. _I was right._ "If you do not prove you've ch-changed the t-terms, I will make sure everyone knows. And if, in a w-week, I am s-still your prisoner…"

Something flashed in his eyes. His hand went to his dirk, but he did not draw it. His breathing was quick, low.

"You speak of honor," he began in disgusted fury, "and yet—"

"I have not told yet," she reminded him, her heart pounding in her ears like a war drum. And yet there was a weight settling upon her…she felt curiously sleepy. "Oh no," she breathed. She had grown up in the north. She knew what this was. She stumbled forward, and strong hands gripped her upper arms.

"You must come back now," he said in exasperation. The world blurred; he had lifted her, slinging her legs over his arm. _He carries me like a bride,_ she thought dazedly, and pressed her face into his shoulder.

So she had been right. Perhaps she was not so stupid after all. Daenerys' lovely violet eyes, hungry with lust, seemed to swim before her, surrounded by burning candles. The Targaryens had bedded each other for hundreds of years, and everyone said that was what had led to their downfall. Their lust burned, legendary as dragonfire.

Jon felt her slump into him as he walked fast as he could. She wasn't shaking anymore, wasn't speaking. His pace quickened, but his mind was filled with fog.

How had she known?

He thought of those Tully eyes sweeping about the room, measuring them all with devastating precision. She knew, because she had spent years honing the ability to cut a person up and reveal everything inside of them. She knew that Dany had no supporters, knew that their cause was empty…she knew what he and Dany did. She had opened him up as easily as if she had sliced open a pomegranate, and every tiny, jewel-like secret had spilled forth, hers to take and crush as she wished, the juice like blood. He'd hardly felt the blade.

* * *

Jaime woke to bitter smoke filling his lungs and burning his eyes. He shot up, looking round for the fire, but there was none.

It had been a warm, humid night, and in desperation he'd left the window open. The acrid scent of smoke was coming in through the window. Furiously rubbing his stinging eyes, he went to the window and pushed aside the silk curtains.

His room overlooked the tiny godswood, a remnant from when kings had kept the old gods. It had become little more than decoration, though he could distinctly recall spotting Sansa Stark there from his window every now and then. In the morning sun, he shaded his eyes, able to see smoke billowing from the heart trees.

The godswood was on fire.

It had been burning for a while. A maester and a few soldiers were rushing out with buckets of water, slopping over the rims as they carried them, but these bucketfuls did nothing. It was too late; the fire was too great. A crowd of royal staff had gathered, some attempting to help, but most simply staring. Some were crying as they watched the ancient wood burn.

"Idiots," he breathed. It was like watching a knocked vase fall to the floor, waiting for the inevitability of the shatter, splatter of water, the ruined porcelain.

Jaime himself kept no gods, neither old nor new. But most of the north kept the old gods.

Minutes later saw him fully dressed. His soldiers rushed around him, not to put out the fire—it was far too late for that—but to obtain a headcount of every last person who knew the godswood had burned.

"No one will say who did it," Bronn said after sidling up to him. The two men stared at the smoking wood. "And I believe we all know what that means."

* * *

"The poor thing, her hands are all bloodied."

A soft, accented voice came from somewhere above. Sansa groaned in pain.

Everything burned and itched. Someone was holding her down, making soothing noises. She was wrapped so tightly she could hardly move.

Her vision cleared. Missandei was hovering over her, tightening the blankets wrapped around her. Beyond her stood Daenerys, clad in plain riding clothes, her hair mussed and damp. Jon Snow was nowhere to be found. "Please do not move, my lady. Your blood needs to warm."

A steaming tub was next to the bed; Missandei took a hot rag from the water, rung it out carefully, and placed it under her neck.

Daenerys stepped forward, and sat on the edge of the bed. To Sansa's shock, her eyes were sad.

"Missandei, I will take it from here," she said. Missandei bowed to Daenerys and left the room, and now they were alone.

Daenerys adjusted the damp rag beneath Sansa's neck with gentle hands. "I have wronged you," she said. "I did not know you had been a captive in King's Landing. I'm sorry."

Sansa blinked rapidly, feeling her eyes burn. It was ridiculous, to be so affected by such simple words—and such empty words they were, yet they were words she had never heard. _I'm sorry_.

"It was foolish of me to run," she said finally.

"Yes, it was," Daenerys conceded. "Though I would have done the same. I _have_ done the same, in the past. And worse."

She stared down at her hands. "I want to rule so that I can change the world." Now she looked at Sansa again, her expression almost pleading. "I want to create a world where little girls can't be sold, where men like Jon Snow are not exiled for the actions of their fathers. I want to make a _better_ world. But changing the world, taking back the throne—it takes gold. I've tried getting gold the honorable way, but it hasn't worked. I never wanted to hurt you, but I understand that I have."

Sansa could not find her words. Daenerys smiled sadly at her, and shifted off of the bed. "I will leave you in peace. Jon will keep you company," she added, and went to the door.

A moment later, Jon walked in. Sansa attempted to shift, but she was wrapped too tightly. Her face felt hot, and she was all too aware that she was naked underneath the blankets.

Across the room they regarded each other. She saw his Adam's apple move as he swallowed. His eyes were hard. He might as well have been a thousand miles away.

Why did this hurt?

Jon approached the bed slowly. Sansa's hair was wilder than he'd ever seen it, and she was so tightly wrapped in blankets that she couldn't move. The torn, bloody, muddied dress lay draped over the chair, along with her corset and underpinnings.

He was blinded by anger, it sang in his veins like fire. _I know your secret. I know what you do…with her._

"I will do it tonight," he said stiffly, looking away from her. "Dany—Princess Daenerys is sympathetic to you. It will be a good time to bring it up."

She actually had the nerve to look sad. He watched her bite her chapped lip and look away. Her cheek was bruised from when she had fallen in the woods. An awful gnawing pain was burning in his chest. "You could have _died,_ " he blurted out suddenly. Her gaze snapped back to him. He let out a slow, seething breath. "You weren't even going in the right direction. You didn't even have proper shoes. Did you _honestly_ think—"

"—No. I honestly didn't think." The gaze she turned on him was searing. "We all do self-destructive things, sometimes. When we're desperate."

Hands fumbling at the waist of his breeches, a mouth on his back, fingers tangled in his hair. Jon cringed from the images; he turned away from Sansa. He was desperate, but for what? "Can you help me?"

She sounded ashamed. Jon turned to find her wriggling, struggling. "It's too warm," she explained uncomfortably. "I…can't move."

"I'm of a mind to leave you like that," he confessed, but all the same he went to her and sat on the edge of the bed. His fingers felt clumsy, useless; he felt along her side for where the blanket was tucked against her form, and felt his face flush as he loosened it. He glimpsed a flash of bare shoulder and looked away hastily.

"Thank you," she stammered, clumsily pulling the blankets up again. She wriggled into a sitting position and the damp cloth fell away from her neck.

He turned away from her and looked out the window. The snow had let up, and the sky was turned lilac as the sun set.

Sansa watched him stare out the window.

"How did you know?" he asked quietly. He didn't look at her. There was no need to explain what he meant. She pulled the blanket tighter.

"I don't know. I suppose the way she looks at you." She looked down. "Do you ever wish you'd stayed at Winterfell?"

"They executed the traitors. I'd be dead."

Daenerys had given him his life, she supposed. And he would spend the rest of it paying her back for that.

Jon closed his eyes. "I always wondered about you, after your father was murdered, and Robb, too." His voice tightened; his knuckles bleached as he gripped the fabric of his breeches. "Tyrion said Lord Baelish protected you."

"I suppose he protected me from being murdered too."

"But you were beaten?" He was looking at her now, and the candlelight edged him in bright gold. The words were stuck in her throat.

"I shouldn't have mentioned any of that," she said. "Sorry. I was a bit…out of my mind."

His lips twitched.

"You put up a good fight," he said lightly. A rush of laughter found her; suddenly, they were both laughing, both trying not to and failing. "I thought my nose was broken," he admitted, touching his nose tenderly. "I didn't expect you to act so wild."

"Neither did I." She drew her knees up to her chest. "I've never done _anything_ like that."

"Really?" he teased.

"Very funny," she snarked. They fell quiet again. "It's so strange, to be around you again. I thought I'd never see you again."

"I thought so too."

"Did you miss Winterfell? Did you miss us?" She hadn't meant to ask, but she'd always wondered. Jon opened his mouth to speak, but there was a soft knock on the door, and Missandei came in before he could answer.

* * *

Jon shed his coat and shirt, then wondered if he should have left them on. What would she prefer? She'd always been the one to cajole him, the one to knock on his door. He'd never had to wonder whether she preferred to undress him or not. He'd never wondered what she preferred at all.

The knock came, sure enough, just as he was washing his face. Dany was still wearing her riding leathers, and she looked weary.

"Jorah and Daario were chased out of Winter Town," she confessed as she locked the door behind her. "We barely have enough food to last the week, but plenty of wine," she continued sarcastically, dropped onto his bed.

"We'll hunt tomorrow," he said, and stood before her in his breeches. She looked up at him with suspicion.

"In the snow? There—" He cut her off with a fierce kiss, and pushed her down onto the featherbed. She sighed into the kiss, then broke away abruptly. "What—"

He kissed her again, biting down on her lip and pinning her wrists up by her head. _I know what you do with her._

 _You are false coin._

 _You are dishonorable._

And yet…

He kissed along her neck, and unlaced the front of her riding outfit with rough, swift movements. She slung a leg around his hips, and he ground his hips into hers in response.

"We need gold," he said into her skin as his hand found her breast and stroked along the tender skin below it. He kissed her again as he swept his thumb over her nipple, then pinched hard. She whimpered and rolled her hips.

 _False coin…_ "I don't think Tarly will pay three thousand dragons," he continued. "He doesn't have it. No one has three thousand dragons right now."

She slipped her hand beneath his breeches and pressed her palm against him.

"We can't just give her back," Dany countered, her other hand tangling in his hair.

"No, you're right." He pulled her hand away and lowered himself to kiss between her breasts. Her fingers tightened in his hair as he grazed his teeth over her skin, then trailed lower. For a long time, they did not speak, and her gasps filled the silence. She let out a sharp cry, and then was unlacing his breeches, and he felt dizzy with desire. He entered her, fast, and they moved against each other, desperate and clawing.

After it was done, they lay side-by-side, breathless, naked chests rising and falling, hair clinging to their skin with sweat.

"Perhaps we should lower the terms," she panted.

Jon closed his eyes.

 _You are false coin._

"Perhaps we should."


	4. Chapter 4

"Joff thought it might deter the northerners' rebellion," Cersei scoffed.

Baelish was stroking his pointed beard, looking between everyone in the small council. Jaime did not like that look.

Outside the window to the council chamber, the godswood still smoked. The smoke drifted upward, over the walls of the palace, and across King's Landing. _That secret will never stay with us; we can never contain it._ Jaime turned his gaze from the window.

He rarely bothered with these small council meetings. They bored him, all of the double-talk and inferences and back-stabbing and schemes and plots. But he could hardly avoid this one: Joffrey had just burned the palace's godswood, a direct insult—perhaps the deepest cut he could have made—to the northerners.

And Jaime was about to launch an extremely targeted attack on a northern house, directly positioned between at least six of the greater northern clans. In other words, Joffrey had just earned them a new enemy whose territory he was about to enter.

"There is no telling how the northern clans might react when they learn," Maester Pycelle wheezed. "They have the savage blood, you know; they do not heed the laws of civilized men."

 _Right—because burning godswoods is far more civilized,_ Jaime thought with a roll of his eyes. He shifted in his seat, looking at his pocketwatch, then studied his sister. Cersei's eyes had been wet with hot tears all morning, and she was gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles bleached. She was the picture of motherly concern.

He was clearly not father material, as he felt no empathy for his secret son's actions. In general he felt no connection to Joffrey. The boy might as well be someone else's son—and of course, much of the world thought he was, or at least pretended to think he was. This latest act of petty viciousness was merely another pearl on the horrid string, another domino tipped in a long line, a line that seemed inexorably headed for their ruin.

"Maester Pycelle is right. The northerners _are_ getting rowdier lately, and so unpredictable," Varys remarked, touching his cheek. "And the Princess Daenerys' influence grows in the north with each passing day. While I cannot say his methods will bring us no trouble, I admit I understand the motive."

"She is a Beggar Princess. She has nothing of value," Cersei dismissed savagely, and Jaime avoided her eyes, pretending to toy incessantly with his watch in the way that she hated. He suspected that it irritated Pycelle and Littlefinger too. Good. "This supposed uprising will be nothing more than a short-lived upset. Jaime will simply go to her hideout and get rid of the little upstart."

Cersei did not know about Tyrion. She did not know about Sansa Stark.

He had never kept secrets from her before.

He couldn't remember when he had started, or why.

"Robert was once a rowdy upstart," he pointed out. Cersei scoffed.

"Robert was from one of the single greatest lineages in the Storm Lands and was backed by respectable families up and down the country."

"And the Starks," Jaime countered. A muscle in Cersei's lovely jaw leapt. "Don't forget, he worked with the northern clans, not against them."

"He was my _dear_ husband. I could hardly forget his illustrious actions," she spat tartly. "Joffrey has merely made a mistake." She tossed her hair now, drawing in a deep breath. "As long as word does not reach any of the northerners—"

— _But it will_ , Jaime thought, though he did not speak his mind. "—At any rate, most of the country has converted to the new gods," Cersei continued pragmatically. "And this is not a conflict of religion. Joffrey did not burn the godswood because he hates the old gods."

No, it wasn't a conflict of religion, she was right about that. It was a conflict of pride, and ownership. Just yesterday they had received intelligence that the Mormont, Umber, Bolton, and Karstark clans were intending on banding together and demanding their independence. No one else had been concerned about this; Pycelle had pointed out that there was far too much tension between the northern clans and always had been for them to ever effectively band together, Littlefinger said that any movement led by a woman was unlikely to succeed (clearly he had never met Maege Mormont...), and Varys said he had heard that the Boltons were planning on double-crossing everyone. Cersei had said that now that the Tarlys held Winterfell, they would have a stronger influence in the north, and rebellion would be less likely.

But without Sansa Stark—a symbol of the north—married to Dickon Tarly, Jaime was not so sure the Tarlys could really hold Winterfell. The northerners took blood more seriously, and they had not yet forgiven the crown for the deaths of the Starks. Their only saving grace was that Eddard Stark had hidden a Targaryen in their midst for so long, and this too still rankled the northerners.

"I must prepare my men," Jaime said abruptly, rising. "Do let me know if I should expect a full-scale northern attack or not." All eyes followed him as he stalked out. In the hall, footsteps followed him.

"I see our politics bore you," Littlefinger said quietly. Jaime halted and did not turn.

"I care not how you handle the King's actions," he dismissed.

"You're not very good at pretending you care not," Littlefinger pointed out.

"What does it matter?" Jaime scoffed, and finally turned round to face the shorter man. Littlefinger was, as ever, dressed more finely than even Cersei. His deep plum silk vest was embroidered with tiny golden mockingbirds, and his darker purple waistcoat was of a rich brocade. "I wonder who gave the King the idea to burn the godswood. Could it have been the man who gave Randyll Tarly the idea of buying and selling Sansa Stark? I do wonder," Jaime said scathingly, advancing on the little man.

Littlefinger's lips twitched, his eyes danced. It felt good to confront him; it would have felt better yet with a sword in his hand but he would take this much. Sometimes he felt like he would forget how to use his own voice.

"An excellent question. I wonder as well," he mused. "I do wish you good fortune on your venture to the north. The northerners can be so ...unpredictable." He was smiling, and there was a twinge of concern that he ignored. "And all sorts of nasty rumors fly about in that country...you know the clansmen, they'll believe any nonsense they hear."

This old thing again. Jaime flashed Littlefinger a smile.

"They've been set straight before. A bullet between the brows or a blade in the gut usually helps sort out any confusion."

Oh, the rush he got. Jaime turned on his heel and left Littlefinger there. His heart was pounding; he felt he could have run a mile. In the barracks, he found Bronn, who was polishing his rifle.

"You look like you just got fucked," he remarked casually when Jaime entered.

"I miss honesty. Raw honesty. Don't you?"

"In the small council? I don't know," the former sellsword mused, focusing on a tiny scuff. "Depends on who you were honest with."

With whom, Tyrion would have corrected. Jaime's fingers stilled as he took his own rifle from its shelf. "For example, I'd never show _raw honesty_ with Lord Baelish. Or Varys."

Jaime said nothing.

"How soon will the men be ready?"

"By dusk. We'll want to leave then. Word is that there's a fierce storm in the north."

"Snow?"

"Snow," confirmed Bronn. He left the office and went to the outer barracks, leaving Jaime alone.

Jaime had visited Winterfell, once, a long time ago—back when Robert was alive, back when the Stark men weren't yet in contempt of the crown. Eddard and Robert had once been best friends, and Jaime had been dragged along on his yearly visit to the north, with a thousand men as protection for the king. The journey had taken forever. When they'd finally arrived, it was a wet autumn day, and they had ridden into the courtyard of Winterfell. The whole Stark clan had been there, dressed in their dull woolen plaids, their faces hard and wind-chapped. Everything seemed grey there: the ground, the sky, the trees, their tartan, their faces. Jaime had hated it.

But like the red leaves of the heart trees, Lady Catelyn's fiery hair had stood out among all that grey, and her children's hair with it. Jaime had ridden past them on his war horse, feeling their awe. The oldest boy Robb looked a Tully, and so did Sansa. The younger children—he could not remember their names—had the red hair, too. One of the little girls had Eddard's long face and dark hair.

And then, off to the side, hidden from view, was a little boy that so resembled Eddard and Lyanna and Brandon that it took his breath away. He'd learn later that that boy—whose face could have been a model for every Stark statue in the crypts of Winterfell—was the Targaryen boy.

"Who is that boy?" Jaime had asked Catelyn later. "He looks more Stark than your lord husband."

Catelyn had bristled.

"That is Jon Snow," she had said stiffly. At the time, he'd thought the boy was a bastard of Eddard's, and the idea that the so very honorable Eddard Stark had fathered a bastard had kept him amused for the whole rest of the visit.

Why had Eddard not given him the Stark name? 'Snow' was such an odd choice. He'd thought Eddard must have done it to appease his wife, but now he was not so sure. It was almost like he had wanted the truth to come out, had wanted everyone to know who the boy really was.

The Targaryen wolf was gone, now. Some said he had been killed, others said he was somewhere in Essos. The Beggar Prince Viserys had stolen him, but Viserys was dead now. He'd be a man grown now, in his mid-twenties at least.

Jaime shook himself from his reverie. It was odd to think of snow—he had not seen it in so many years, being this far south—and it was odd to think of Jon Snow.

He had other Targaryens to kill.

* * *

Lady Stark's room still bore signs of the disturbance. The servants hadn't been able to get the bloodstains out of the ancient wooden floor from where Big Tom had been slain. Her wardrobe was little more than firewood, as they'd taken an axe to it to get through the door. The perfume that Dickon had bought her—Myrish, in a glass bottle, made from roses from Highgarden—was left uncapped, and the room smelled powerfully of roses.

Dickon had not slept since that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he thought of how her face must have looked when the Targaryen savages had broken in. It made his hands shake.

He had first laid eyes on her a mere few weeks ago, but the moment was as fresh in his mind's eye as though he were living it again. He had heard Father talk of the Starks, the rise and fall of their clan, and of the little Stark lady held at King's Landing.

At the masquerade ball he had finally seen her.

She had caught his eye, before he had known who she was. He had been discussing swords with Jaime Lannister—general of the royal army and perhaps the man he most admired—when a flash of copper had caught his eye.

She had been standing beneath a candelabra and her hair had seemed to glow. He forgot he had been speaking as he had taken in the willowy form, the girl dressed in grey silk, a silver mask of lace hiding her eyes. She had been standing in the corner, next to Lord Baelish. His father had told him that he would be meeting his fiancee that night, but he had not known her identity yet.

General Lannister had laughed suddenly, drawing him abruptly back to the present. His face had colored with shame. Gods, how he was embarrassing himself.

"S-sorry, General Lannister, I-"

"Oh, don't apologize. Lady Sansa Stark has been known to have such an effect on ...lesser men." Lannister's words had lingered in distaste as he had looked to Lord Baelish, whose pointed beard made him recognizable even with his golden mask. He watched Lord Baelish whisper something into Sansa Stark's lovely ear. They were both staring at him, and he was staring back like a fool.

" _That_ is the Stark girl?" He had always heard the Starks were horse-faced, savage-mannered clansmen who kept the old gods and never washed their hair. But she was the loveliest creature he had ever seen. His mouth had gone dry and his fingers twitched.

"Nothing like gawking at a woman like you've never seen one before to win her over," Lannister mused dryly. Dickon felt a strong hand on his shoulder, guiding him back to face him. "For gods' sake, don't swoon. You're not a bloody maiden."

"I-I-yes, of course," he stammered. His waistcoat felt unbearably heavy, suddenly, and he felt his mask clinging to his skin uncomfortably.

Everything had changed. The tales he had heard, of the Stark girl being held in captivity, isolated, her betrothal to the king destroyed—they seemed different, now that he knew she was no savage northerner. He had never thought much of it before. But now... How she must have suffered, he thought, sadly. He chanced another glance at her. She was no longer looking at him, and Lord Baelish's hand was on her arm, then on the small of her back.

"Lord Tarly. Looking well," came the general's voice suddenly, and Dickon's gaze snapped to his father, who had joined them. His mask sat upon his face like it had been ordered to do so. "I should warn you, your son is quite taken with Lady Stark. Hopefully this explains the drooling and poor conversation."

Dickon was beginning to think that, perhaps, the general was not so heroic as he had once thought. He really was shockingly rude. Lannister's words might have angered his father, but to his shock, his father merely snorted, looking Lannister full in the eyes. His pupils seemed wider as he gazed upon Lannister.

"What luck. Few men are taken with their future wives," he remarked. Lannister threw his magnificent golden head back and roared with laughter.

"Luck indeed! Or perhaps not. There must be some cautionary tale about falling for a woman at a masquerade, is there not?"

Dickon forced a smile at Lannister. "I wouldn't know," Lannister added with an innocent shrug. "I never was much for reading."

"Dickon neither," Father agreed. "Thank the Seven for it. Our family has had enough shame."

Dickon bristled, but he would not dare openly disagree with his father here, at a party, in front of General Lannister.

"Lady Sansa is quite well-read. Perhaps she can teach you," Lannister remarked. Father laughed, perhaps a little too hard. Dickon only now noticed the wine sloshing in his cup. He had never even seen his father have more than one measured, reluctant sip of wine. Lannister motioned for one of the servants to refill Father's cup, and Father actually had accepted, slightly red-faced, laughing with Lannister.

Lannister and Father had gone off, leaving Dickon to continue to stare helplessly at Sansa Stark. She'd smiled at him, and his heart had begun to pound. Did she know they were to be wed? He would bed this lovely creature; he would save her from King's Landing and wed her and bed her. He had never lay with a woman before; the candelabra seemed to illuminate the impossibly soft skin above the neckline of her gown, which swelled slightly with her every breath. She was perfect.

And now the Targaryen savages had her.

He couldn't cry like some sort of girl. He would not. Dickon set to work picking the silk dresses from the floor that had spilled forth from the wardrobe. They smelled like her skin, the scent that had tantalized him just a few nights earlier as they had walked together in the night. She had been so radiant, so charming. He'd always felt so uncomfortable at parties and Sansa had seemed so natural, like a flower blooming in a garden that had been planted just for her. As they had met at the mouth of the Great Hall, he had been silenced by a fresh wave of admiration. She had torn herself away from speaking to one of the ladies and he had watched her approach him, resplendent in a rosy gown that was the same pink as her lips, the ghost of laughter around her eyes. She smoothed herself as she reached him, her eyes glimmering with something like a promise. He had been unable to think of anything witty or clever to say, and had felt how he so was lacking. He could only offer her his arm, helplessly, and hope that she did not think him a stupid fool.

Dickon picked up the silks and lay them on her bed. _She must be so scared right now,_ he thought.

And Father would say nothing of the ransom note, of where it had come from, of how they would pay. "Worry not," he'd said gruffly, each time Dickon had asked. His father had always been so terrible at keeping secrets, and the gleam in his eyes told Dickon that there was so much he did not know.

"What in seven hells are you doing, boy?" His father's harsh voice broke him from his thoughts, and Dickon turned, still holding one of Sansa's dresses. His father cast his dark eyes about the room, seeing how the silks had been picked up and the broken wardrobe pushed to the side.

"I-I just thought," he sputtered, his face growing hot, and he hastily dropped the dresses. _What, are you some sort of girl?_ He swallowed over the lump in his throat. "I must do something," he finally said, finding his voice. "The waiting-"

"Forget the dresses. Come, we have a meeting with Lord Baelish," Father said gruffly, gesturing for Dickon to follow him.

Dickon hastened after his father, out of Sansa's room. When they came to the open air of one of the breezeways he realized just how heavily the room had smelled of the rose perfume, and now he smelled like it, too. Father would not like that.

In the old Maester's Tower, Lord Baelish was waiting, examining an old-fashioned Myrish lens. He turned when they entered, his long mulberry-colored cloak swirling elegantly. His eyes glimmered when he saw Dickon.

"Lord Baelish," Dickon greeted. Why was Lord Baelish here? The man was known for his ability to produce gold out of seemingly nowhere—was he truly their only answer to retrieving Sansa?

"Have I ever told you just how handsome your boy is, Lord Tarly?" Baelish said in an unctuous voice. Father looked uncomfortable, and gestured for them all to take their seats around the small table.

"You've mentioned it," he said shortly. "Now, let us get to this business. The Beggar Princess has been informed that we will be meeting her at Moat Cailin on Saturday eve, to negotiate."

"We will?" Dickon asked, half-rising from his seat, but at the stony look of his father, he sat back down. His face grew warm. He'd not known...would it be enough time to prepare?

"We will not. There will be no need," said Baelish, his eyes glittering. "General Lannister is taking a small garrison to the Beggar Princess' hideout. The soldiers will execute the Beggar Princess and her Targaryen savages and take Lady Stark."

"It's the perfect opportunity. It's the first time we have been able to track them to a place where they can be attacked, and they have no plans of moving, because they intend to negotiate with us on Saturday," Father summarized.

"O-oh." Dickon stared at his hands. "Have you had any word of how they are treating Lady Stark? Will we alter the wedding date? We've put the preparations on hold for so long now. I admit, I do not know what goes into preparing for a ball, but-"

"-There won't be any wedding, boy. You're not marrying the Stark bitch," Father interrupted bluntly.

Baelish was smiling.

"Why not? We're engaged; we're living in her home," Dickon blurted. Father and Baelish exchanged a look, one that made him feel like a child.

Lady Stark had seemed so remote...had she known she would not be marrying him?

"It is not your concern. You'll wed a proper southron girl at some point," Father said, waving his hand.

"What will happen to Winterfell?" Dickon thought of the exhausting, sprawling journey north.

"We'll continue to live in it."

"And what of Lady Stark?"

"She will...go south, back to King's Landing."

"Worry not, my beautiful boy. I will take good care of your lovely northern princess," Baelish said softly, stroking his beard.

"Back to King's Landing? But she just got away." Dickon shot to his feet, and he heard the chair knock over behind him, but his face felt hot and the blood was pounding in his ears. "You saw with your own eyes how happy she was to leave, Father. You can't just—" his voice caught in his throat, and his eyes burned.

"Got away? The Stark bitch was very well kept by the Lannisters, even when her father and brother betrayed the crown," Father countered. "Did you not see her garbed in silks? Did she seem to be starving, or wanting for shelter?" His father's dark brown eyes, so like Samwell's and yet so unlike his, fixed on him. "Good gods, Dickon, use your head. You know the Starks have a penchant for those foul Targaryens. Who knows what the bitch has been up to since she was taken."

Dickon blinked rapidly, his vision blurring as his father's face became distorted and blurred before him. "Are you going to _weep_? You're as pathetic as your brother. Get out of my sight," he spat.

"Dickon is a sensitive man; it is an admirable qua—" Baelish began, but Father cut him off, his face turning red as raw meat.

"-He is not a sensitive man. He is acting like a fool, like a _woman_. Go, leave, get ahold of yourself, boy."

Dickon inhaled sharply.

"I am fine, Father," he insisted. "I don't think Lady Stark would ever-"

"-I don't care what you think. The matter is settled. And now Winterfell is ours, and soon we will be rid of that savage pretender to the throne," Father said, settling back in his chair. "Now, leave us. We have no more use for you."

Dickon left the Maester's Tower and went straight to the godswood. He did not keep the old gods, of course—that was for savages and brutes and smallfolk—but he had always liked sitting among the ancient trees, and besides, he wanted to be alone.

It had snowed all morning but the snow had let up. Covered in snow, the red leaves of the heart trees stood even more vividly, making him think of Sansa's hair. Dickon brushed the snow off the crude stone bench at the center of the godswood and sat upon it, though he felt a chill at once through his breeches. His clothes were ill-suited to this harsh northern weather.

Sansa had seemed to love it.

Was she befouling herself with one of the Targaryen savages at this very moment? He doubted it. Sansa was a lady, that much had been plain from the start. A lump was still forming in his throat, try as he might to swallow over it. He ought to have been practicing with his sword, or something; it was what his father had always encouraged him to do, and he had always been obedient. But it never made him feel better, if he were being honest. He wished his older brother Sam were here. Father despised Sam, but Sam had always known what to say to make him feel better. Even when Sam himself had been chastised and shamed, and ruthlessly compared to Dickon, he had always been so kind.

His eyes still burned and it made him angry. Maybe he was just as much of a girl as Sam was. He was being stupid. Sansa Stark should not have mattered to him. But he felt like an intruder in Winterfell, in the whole of the north, and he felt like he had taken something from her. And it wasn't what he'd wanted at all—he had been thinking constantly of that look on her face as they had rode away from King's Landing. She had remained twisted in the carriage, staring at its silhouette, for a long time. And then, when she'd finally turned to face forward once more, he had seen a relief so profound in her eyes. It had made him think of his brother, and the day he had finally been sent away from their home. He'd cried, of course, but as Dickon had walked with him to the front gate, helping him to carry one of his trunks, he had seen his brother's face—no, his whole being—transform. He had seemed lighter, brighter. Like he could feel hope again.

He had felt like he'd rescued her. It had felt good.

"I am sorry to take such a jewel away from you, Dickon."

Baelish was at the edge of the godswood, his heavy plum cloak trailing in the snow. "I did not know you kept the old gods," he continued as he advanced toward him. Baelish sat upon the bench beside him.

"I do not, Lord Baelish. I merely wanted some air."

They sat in silence. Dickon had never quite known what to say to Lord Baelish. He felt so uneasy around him. "Do you?" he finally spoke, desperate to break the silence. "Keep the old gods, I mean." Baelish smirked.

"No, I cannot say I do. I never understood the appeal."

"Neither have I, though it is a nice garden." Dickon fidgeted with his fingers, which were turning red in the cold. "I am glad that it will be General Lannister to come to Lady Stark's rescue. He is the finest general that the army has ever seen. He's not lost a battle yet."

Baelish did not speak, though his mouth twitched. At last he turned that glittering gaze upon Dickon.

"He is fierce. Perhaps too fierce," he said almost mournfully. "A man so prone to violence...and for Lady Stark, it may not be such a relief."

"What do you mean? Do you think she really did—" he couldn't even say it. "You can't think she ...lay with one of the Targaryens."

"No, she is a lady, and of her own volition she would never reduce herself in such a way. But there are rumors...but of course, only a fool puts stock in rumors."

"Rumors?" Dickon got to his feet, his breath clouding in the air. "Speak plainly, my lord."

"I would never want to speak ill of such a beloved general," Baelish said in a low voice. He too rose to his feet, and leaned close to Dickon. His breath smelled like mint. "And I know you have always admired the man. Your father admires him as well."

"What are these rumors?"

"Only whispers...and Lady Sansa seemed so very sad at court for so very long...she never could look the general in the eye, and of course, as he is the queen regent's brother, he was ...forced...upon her so often. I do wonder if he was the sole reason that she wished so very much to leave King's Landing."

"You think he—"

"-Rumors, my dear boy. Whispers, and nothing more. I doubt them myself. Still, he is a man of profound violence...and he has no wife, and does that not seem strange? A man who looks like a god himself, of status lower than only the king...why has he not married? And, further, what must that do to a man?"

Baelish stepped back, a subtle smirk on his lips. "He must be so ...frustrated. As I'm sure you can imagine." Baelish shivered. "Oh, I must be off. It is far too cold for me here, and too empty. I bid you goodbye here; I must apologize in advance, for I believe that when we meet next, I shall be a married man."

Baelish gave a low bow and turned, his cloak swirling about his slight form.

His mind seemed to turn dark. The godswood faded around him, briefly. Dickon clenched his fists and set his jaw and left the godswood. His father was still in the Maester's Tower, and when Dickon entered, he was pressing the seal into sealing wax.

"You embarrassed me today," he said without looking up.

"Baelish told me something disturbing about General Lannister," Dickon blurted. Father's gaze snapped up to him.

"You keep your mouth shut about the general, boy."

"Wh-what?" Dickon stammered. "Father, what Baelish said about the man—it's foul, it's disgusting—how could you-"

"-I did nothing, boy!" Out of nowhere, Father flung the metal seal at him; it hit his brow and Dickon stumbled back with a shout, into a table bearing a crystal decanter of whisky and glasses. The table toppled and the glass shattered; when he took his hand from his brow, it was covered in blood. Father was red-faced and breathless, his hands shaking and his eyes wide. "Do you hear me? Nothing. Now get out."

* * *

"We have sent word to Lord Tarly, to lower the amount of your ransom." Daenerys sat perfectly straight, like she had practiced at looking regal. Sansa tried not to look at Jon. There was a shadow of a bruise on Daenerys' neck, nearly hidden by her hair. "We understand that three thousand gold dragons is more money than he may be able to produce, and we want to be realistic in our request."

 _Our request._ It sounded so polite, so lighthearted.

"Thank you, Princess."

Daenerys dismissed her, and Sansa followed Jon back to her room. There was no scent of roast capon, nor any signs of cooking, she noticed, though it was suppertime. Jon did not speak, and when they arrived at her door, he merely stood beside it, waiting for her to enter.

She paused before him. "Thank you. I don't know what this has cost you, but whatever it is, I thank you for it."

She met Jon's grey eyes. He looked away, licked his lips, then took her by the arm and pushed her into the room. He shut the door, and then in the frosty darkness—for her fire had died—he rounded on her, so close that his chest brushed against her, his hands gripping her arms.

"You will not speak of it," he whispered. Sansa reflexively tried to back away, but his grip was like a vice.

"The second part of the agreement is that I will no longer be a prisoner, no matter the outcome of the meeting with Lord Tarly," she hissed back. The room suddenly seemed too warm, and she tried to twist out of his grip, but he held fast. "Until you honor that—"

"—What the hell am I supposed to do?" In his fury, the old northern accent was becoming stronger. He sounded like Robb, like father. Out of nowhere she wanted to cry, but she would not cry before him anymore. "Seven hells, my hands are tied—"

"—not so tied, I think," she retorted in a whisper. "I saw her neck."

His cheeks became flushed. A muscle leapt in his jaw. "I did what was necessary to lower the ransom. You will not shame me—"

"—you shame yourself. I have done nothing!" She writhed against his grip again. "I have thanked you for lowering the ransom, but I will not release you until both conditions are met."

Jon's breathing was shallow; she could hear him grinding his teeth as he glowered at her. "Jon, what if she becomes with child?" she asked in a softer voice.

"It can't happen," he said. His grip did not loosen.

"But what of your soul?" she pressed. "Such a secret must make you miserable. How can you live in such a way?"

"Not every god thinks it a sin. Only the Seven," he said, but his voice was weak. Desperate. Almost beseeching. "The Targaryens wed brother and sister for hundreds of years. You said yourself I am no Stark. If I am no Stark, then I am Targaryen."

"But you don't want this. I know you don't."

She couldn't say why she did it. She raised her hands, slowly, and felt Jon's grip loosen slightly. She placed her hands on his face. The roughness of his beard tickled her skin. With bated breath he waited as she touched his face. "It was unkind of me to say you were not a Stark," she admitted. "I think you're afraid."

He swallowed.

"What could I possibly fear?" He let go of her arms and stepped back, out of her reach. "The whole country is afraid of me, afraid that I live and breathe, afraid that I may land on King's Landing and try to claim the throne. There is nothing for me to be afraid of."

He stalked out of her room, and she heard him lock the door. She was alone, in the dark and cold, once more.

She crawled to the bed. The shorter cloak that Jon had covered her with was still strewn over the chair, with the tattered, bloody gown she had tried to run away in. She didn't know why, but she picked it up.

To be afraid, to live in fear...it was the worst thing, the very worst. She held the cloak against her, as though holding Jon. And then, disgusted with herself, she threw it down again.

She'd always been so weak. She could cry at anyone's pain. She had once cried for a Lannister man, when he had been humiliated at a party. She'd been unable to stop herself.

She needed to be stronger. She needed to stop _feeling._

* * *

He needed to move, needed to ride, but he could go nowhere. He was trapped. Jon prowled the hall outside of Sansa's bedroom like a ghostly wolf, pacing to and fro relentlessly. Anger rushed through his veins, dizzying and acidic. Perhaps it was the hunger making things worse. He was hungry, so hungry he could not see straight. There always seemed to be wine, but never food. They'd have to kill one of the horses, soon, unless they could make it to Friday, when the market was raised in Winter Town.

 _But what of your soul?_

His soul. A laughable thing. He had done so many wrongs he had lost count of them. All in service to Daenerys and her cause. He thought whatever was left of his soul must be ragged, burned, a thin rag flapping in the breeze.

 _You're just as lost, just as helpless as I am._


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa had been unable to sleep again, for hunger and for cold. There was no firewood left to put in her fireplace, and when she had knocked on her door and asked Daario for some more, shivering as she had spoken, he had gleefully told her that this was not an inn and she was their prisoner, not their princess. That, and she had been furious all night about her conversation with Jon, though she was not sure why it had upset her so much.

At dawn when the sky lightened she saw that much of the snow had melted once more, giving way to rain. The courtyard was dotted with pools of icy muddy water formed in the loose gravel, and a thick fog lingered, blurring a black silhouette that approached the stables. With nothing else to do, Sansa watched as the silhouette disappeared into the stables and emerged soon after with a black horse. It was Jon, she belatedly realized, and the horse on which he had carried her from Winterfell.

He led the horse around the courtyard at a bit of a run, for a few laps, and the horse reared and jumped. It didn't seem like anyone was allowed to go outside of the holdfast's walls; he must have been trying to exercise the horse as best he could.

He'd always been gentle with animals, she remembered. The stray dogs that lingered in Winterfell's halls could always expect a mouthful of stolen food and an affectionate rub on the belly from him. She leaned her forehead against the freezing glass, watching as he rubbed the horse's neck, smiling, even as the rain poured. That anyone could feel love at all in a place like this, so stony and hopeless, seemed impossible, but Jon must have loved this animal, to be out in the rain like this.

He had once been a naive, innocent child, just like her. He had once been loving and kind. She thought of him giving Bran the fish, and then, to her own fury and shame, she felt tears tracking down her cheeks as she thought of Bran, now reduced to just another brother she had lost. She scrunched her eyes shut, willing the tears to stop. Being in the north had brought old memories of her brothers and sister back, memories she had tried to repress, because all they did was hurt her. These memories were lovely as roses but if she tried to hold them they would prick her just as well.

Everyone she had ever loved was gone now; it was just her left. She and Jon were all that remained of the Winterfell she had known and loved. She felt like she was slowly being erased from the world; sometimes, in her worst moments in King's Landing, she had wondered if she had simply imagined her whole childhood.

Did Jon feel the same way? As far as she knew he had been across the Narrow Sea from the time he had left Winterfell to only a few months ago. But to look at him in the pouring rain, he looked as much a part of the north as the snow itself. He'd ridden through the snow so easily, too, and had tracked her through the tangled woods with no effort at all. He belonged here. How had it felt, to be taken from a place to which he so clearly belonged—and how did it feel, she wondered, to come back to it, after all this time?

Out of nowhere she remembered her father's words: _the lone wolf dies but the pack survives_.

What would happen, she wondered, if she were kind to Jon?

 _I never wanted to think it,_ she mused as she watched him run with the horse, _but he is as much a wolf as I am._

She was ashamed of her thoughts from the night before. She had spent ten years watching Cersei try to run from love, and choking on the noose of her own bitterness every time. She had watched the Lannisters respond to hatred with violence. It did not work. She had always known it. Every time the people of King's Landing rioted, the Lannisters—Cersei especially—responded with just more violence, harsher rules. Jon was hurting, living in fear. He did not need violence from her; he needed kindness.

* * *

When the garrison had first set out in the humid evening, riding away from King's Landing, the men had been jaunty and cheerful. In the towns outside of King's Landing, they had been welcomed with cheers and admiration, and had taken up an entire inn and its stables the first night, for free, with plenty of women warming the soldiers' beds. It had seemed like some great romantic adventure, and the morale had been high. Jaime was used to this. Every battle, every career, he had observed how boisterous the energy was, in the beginning, especially if they were first-time soldiers.

And how quickly it could dissolve! He'd laughed and drank (well, pretended to; he did not drink as a personal rule) and jested with the rest of them, well into the wee hours of the morning, but when it came time to turn into his own bed, in his private room at the inn, he had lay awake well into the dawn, filled with a sense of dread. He could not name its source; there should have been nothing for him to dread. They had contained the gross error of the godswood, and the land was peaceful.

He'd never been one to be overcome by fear, but as he got older, that had begun to change. He had seen too much, he knew the ways of the world too well. For every battle he had won (and he'd won many), so much had been lost. When he had been young, and things were still good between he and Cersei, every jaunt off to battle had felt like another great game, like he was some sort of golden knight.

He did not feel that way anymore, and it seemed a great loss.

He got no sleep at all; yet when they regrouped in the pale blue dawn to continue north, with all of his men irritable and puffy-eyed, he still felt wide awake, and on edge. He was constantly looking over his shoulder for an enemy he could not name.

They rode the whole day, at a fast clip. The men complained about the pace, but only briefly: they knew better than to challenge him too much. The lush green of the land around King's Landing soon gave way to twisting hills and boggy drops, and the towns were fewer and farther between, their houses not so high, their walls not so new. These people wore no silks and did not greet the sight of redcoats on white horses with cheers and tossed flowers, but rather with hard, suspicious stares and closed doors.

Something was wrong. He could feel it.

"We've got to stop soon," Bronn said, riding faster to ride apace with him as they passed yet another village with thatched roofs and crumbling stone walls. He saw a man in tartan watching them pass, a pitchfork over his shoulder. Grey tartan...it might have been the Stark tartan, but he'd been too far away to tell. "We'll ride the horses into the ground if we don't."

"We're making bad time. At this rate it will be another day before we're even close," Jaime argued, urging his horse faster, eager to put distance between himself and the man in the tartan.

"We have to stop tonight," Bronn insisted bluntly. He'd never been one to take positions of authority or rank terribly seriously, and though normally Jaime appreciated that about the man, at the moment it angered him, particularly as he knew he was right.

"We'll stop at the next big town," he finally said grudgingly, after looking back at the garrison behind them. The soldiers were sleepy on their horses, and at this level of exhaustion, the horses could easily be lamed by a poorly-placed rock.

Well after sunset they came to a town that looked civilized enough; at any rate, there was a large inn, with enough space to accommodate at least most of their garrison. The others could set up camp; it'd be good for them, he reasoned, to get a real taste of what war was actually like. It wasn't all prancing from inn to inn, sharing hay-filled mattresses with pretty whores. Most of the time it was sitting in cramped tents in the rain, sinking into the mud, sick with hunger yet afraid to eat, muscles tensed all the time.

As they rode into the town, doors were locked and shutters slammed. It was late, Jaime told himself; the villagers were merely getting ready for bed.

The inn was in a slanting wooden building with a roof in dire need of re-thatching. Jaime and Bronn went to the innkeeper, a thin, haggard man missing far too many teeth, dressed in tartan. If Jaime had ever paid attention to the northern clans he might've been able to identify which house the tartan belonged to, but he'd never been able to make himself give a damn about that nonsense. He knew the Stark tartan well enough, as Eddard and his daughter had been at court for so long, but he wasn't even sure he could have picked it out of a bunch at this time. They all looked the same to him. He thought of the man with the pitchfork, staring at him with such hatred. _Didn't the Stark tartan have white in it?_ he wondered uneasily, studying the wool.

"We'll take all of your rooms. We're on the King's business," Jaime told the man, setting a leather pouch filled with gold dragons before him, probably more gold dragons than the man had ever seen in his life.

And yet the innkeeper took the pouch with suspicious hands, looking upon Jaime with the utmost disgust.

"Lannister gold," he mused. Jaime did not like his tone, and by the way Bronn's hand went lightly to the hilt of his sword, Bronn had noticed the tone as well. The innkeeper's plain eyes followed the movement of Bronn's hand.

"King's gold, in fact," Jaime corrected coldly. "I believe it should be more than enough to pay for all of your rooms for the evening. It's more than fair payment."

"Surprising that the general wants to pay his fair share," the innkeeper said. Jaime's hand went to his own sword now; not to mention his pistol was in clear view as well.

"I don't like your tone. We're the royal army, let me remind you. We don't have to pay you. This is a courtesy."

The man looked like he'd speak further, but his eyes took in the swords, the pistols. Working his jaw, he took the leather pouch all the same.

"That was odd," Bronn remarked later, after they had got all of the garrison in the inn. The inn was packed with men on crowded benches, eating and talking noisily. Just outside the window, their horses were stabled. Jaime and Bronn sat in the corner; Jaime did not feel very hungry, and Bronn never seemed to eat. The man only drank from a flask, and he was doing so now, as they watched the soldiers.

"Not everyone has much love for the royal army," Jaime agreed. "I don't expect they'll get much nicer, the further north we go."

"I don't know that it was the royal army he hated so much," Bronn said, before taking a long swig. He had, as usual, given voice to what Jaime had been thinking. _No, it had been a personal matter_. The innkeeper hated _him_. But why? Jaime had given many people cause to hate him in his life, but he had not even been north in years. Was it still the old story of Joffrey's parentage, still causing trouble? That ghost would haunt him until he died. _But it's true,_ he thought uncomfortably. _Where there's smoke, there's fire. Rumors only spread if they're easy to believe._

He was so exhausted, yet again that night he did not sleep. This night was colder than the last; even the distance they had traveled in the day had made much difference in the weather. As they got further north, as the elevation climbed, they'd feel it more. By tomorrow night they'd be in the middle of the autumn snow and ice.

He tossed and turned, and it was a relief when dawn came, though dawn was subtler here, greyer too. Jaime was the first one to the stables, where the innkeeper and his stable boy were helping to prepare their horses. The innkeeper's wife was watching from the door to the kitchens, dressed in tartan as well. Jaime felt another twinge of unease. Wasn't tartan meant for special gatherings and events? No one of the lower class should be dressed in tartan for a normal day.

"They have no love for you," Bronn observed when he joined him. "They've been courteous to the other men, and good enough to me. It's you they hate."

"Lucky for me, I'm not trying to get the popular vote," Jaime said acidly, mounting his horse and kicking the heels of his polished black boots into the animal's hide.

The mood of the garrison had soured; no one had wanted to leave the inn so early. He was making friends everywhere, he observed with black humor, though all the same he was glad to see the last of that innkeeper. They rode out of the village, and he felt eyes on him the whole way. _It's you they hate._

People had hated him all his life. He wondered when he'd get used to it.

* * *

"Lord Tarly has requested that you dress and meet him in the Great Hall; the Bolton clan has come to visit," one of the servants called through Dickon's door.

Dickon rose and studied himself in his mirror. There was a nasty purple splotch over his brow, dented by rusted red, where the metal seal had hit him. His own hair wouldn't cover it, so he tried putting on his wig, which he'd not worn since he'd left the south. No one wore powdered wigs here, up north, and he'd felt silly in them. It didn't matter; the wig didn't hide the bruise any better. Perhaps they'd assume he'd acquired it in some impressive way.

He dressed in a dark green velvet waistcoat and vest, the Tarly green, and did his best to neaten his hair. He knew nothing of the Boltons, but he feared the northern clans, and was anxious about meeting the clans.

When he was satisfied with his appearance, he left his rooms and went to the Great Hall. It was pouring rain this morning and the snow that had fallen mere days earlier was mostly gone, leaving grey mud in its place. The only colour to be had was from the red leaves in the godswood.

The air in the Great Hall was damp; this was supposed to be the grandest place in all of Winterfell and yet it was not even as warm or welcoming as the kitchens at Horn Hill. A few tapers had been lit in the Great Hall but they did nothing but emphasize just how grim the place really was.

And standing there, before his father, were two of the grimmest-looking men Dickon had ever seen. His velvet waistcoat felt positively celebratory compared to their dark grey tartans, threaded with bloody red.

The older man was shaven, and bald, and had watery, eerie blue eyes that looked like a mistake. The younger man next to him had thick, unruly dark hair and the same eerie blue eyes, and a mean, hungry look about him.

"Ah, this must be your son," said the older man in a voice barely above a whisper. It was a surprising voice: warm and smooth as butter, and just as soft. It was ill-matched to its owner.

"Dickon, this is Lord Roose Bolton and his son Ramsay, of the Bolton clan," Father said, not meeting Dickon's eyes. Dickon strode to them, standing as tall as he could, even as he saw Ramsay's eyes take in his velvet and white stockings with something like amusement dancing in his eyes. Next to them in their leathers he felt silly, like a woman, and he did not like it.

"I've not yet met a clansman, beside Sansa Stark, yet," Dickon said by way of greeting, after offering them a handshake. Roose Bolton's handshake was limp and clammy; Ramsay's was almost painful.

"Ah, Sansa Stark," Ramsay said. His voice was oddly high, and musical. "Poor little wolf."

"We have heard of her kidnapping," Roose said into the hush of the hall. "The girl has seen too much tragedy, to be sure."

Dickon clenched his fists, thinking of General Lannister.

"Yes, she has," he replied stiffly. Ramsay was looking at him with great interest that left him nettled and unsure.

"Enough of the Stark girl," Father said abruptly. "The Seven know I've heard enough about that matter to last me ten lives. Lord Bolton has come here on business; we may as well discuss it, as I've not got all day."

They sat at the high table and were brought some of Dickon's favorite dishes, though without the fresh fish or golden grain from the Reach, the dishes did not taste nearly as good. The bread was too hard, too sour.

"The Mormont, Umber, and Karstark clans are banding together," Roose said in that soft voice, that made them all still their forks, the better to hear him...save for Ramsay, who ate as vigorously and loudly as a wild dog. It was sickening. He'd always heard that the northern clansmen were savage; it seemed the stories had been true all along. "And Winterfell is a place of near holiness to the clans. Without Sansa Stark, you are unsafe here."

Father looked uncomfortable.

"We sold her to Lord Baelish; that was the deal," he replied tersely.

"It is a good plan, but it comes at an inopportune time. There are rumors that the godswood at King's Landing has been burned, and the north has taken that as an insult. We in clan Bolton do not keep the old gods, or the new ones," Roose continued dispassionately, "but the rest of the north is quite partial to their heart trees. And, speaking of the Stark girl, there has been talk of General Lannister having molested her more than once during her stay with the King."

"So?" Father arched his brows. Dickon's face flushed with anger and his hands shook as he cut into his fish; he felt Ramsay still staring at him.

"Sansa Stark is a symbol to the north. Her family has been one of the most prominent clans for generations. To rape her is to rape the north."

"And they're taking _that_ as grounds for rebellion?" he asked in disbelief. "She's just a girl, nothing more."

"It is all convening at an inopportune time. But clan Bolton does not share such notions, I assure you, Lord Tarly. We are loyal to the crown and have always been."

"Make your point, Bolton," Father ordered, looking irritable.

"We can help you as the rebellion gains strength...you rule Winterfell, which is the seat of the north. Why not rule the north?" Roose asked. Father studied Roose with narrowed eyes.

"Go on," he finally encouraged.

"Excuse me," Dickon said suddenly, rising. "I will return shortly."

Father ignored him; Roose continued speaking in a low voice that Dickon could not hear as he walked quickly out of the Great Hall.

Out in the rain, he considered going to the godswood, but decided against it and veered sharply to the Sept. It was empty inside, and he sat on one of the benches. In the south, the sun was always shining, leaving brilliant patches of coloured light on the floor of the Sept, but here, the windows might as well have been plain glass, for all the colour they gave.

He didn't even hear the soft footsteps; suddenly Ramsay was sitting down on the bench beside him.

"You must be very sorry to have your betrothed taken from you," Ramsay remarked in a soft voice. "I'd be angry too."

"I'm not angry," Dickon said shortly. "As Father said, it was the deal."

"A deal made without your consent, I gather." Ramsay scoffed. "If my father had done that to me, I'd kill him."

Ramsay's words rang in the silence of the Sept.

"He did what he thought best," Dickon finally spoke, his voice raw.

"No man takes another man's woman," Ramsay went on, ignoring his words. "And to think she had already been used by the Lannister general. Now she'll be used by the Targaryen savages...then Baelish." Ramsay laughed softly. "You'll be the only man who hasn't gotten your hands on her, by the time this all is over."

"Do not speak such foul words about my—" he halted. She wasn't his fiancee anymore. "—About a lady," he corrected.

"I have nothing but respect for _your_ lady, my lord," Ramsay said quickly, holding his hands up in innocence. "And she is _your_ lady—you were to marry her, after all."

Dickon looked away and fixed his gaze on the seven-pointed star at the head of the room. "We northmen are harder, my sweet southron lord," Ramsay continued in a sweeter voice. "You'll never earn the northerner's respect until you show them you are not to be trifled with."

"It is my father who must earn their respect," Dickon countered. Ramsay laughed.

"Your father is an old man, Tarly. How many years has he got left? He'll die, and all they'll know of you is that you're the soft boy who let his papa take away his woman, and he didn't bat an eye as he did it. He let every man have his woman but himself."

"I didn't marry her. She's not—not my woman," Dickon said, still not looking at Ramsay. "She's to marry Lord Baelish now, and that's the end of it."

"But the Lannister man and the Targaryen savages will have their piece of her unpunished," Ramsay mused. They were silent for a time, and then he got to his feet. Dickon felt his hand rest on his shoulder, briefly. "A northman wouldn't let such acts go unpunished."

And he left Dickon there, alone in the Sept.

* * *

Jon could not sleep for hunger. He had sat down on the floor of the hall, leaning against the wall, hoping that crouching might make him forget the gnawing emptiness, but without the movement of pacing to keep him distracted, the hunger was all he could think of.

And the cold was becoming unbearable. The fire in Sansa's room had not been lit, nor had any fireplaces in the house, as far as he could tell. He couldn't stop shaking, and he doubted that Sansa was faring much better. Jon listened, but Sansa did not sound awake, and so he risked a chance and crept away, down the hall, to the room that Daario, Jorah, and Davos shared.

Daario and Davos were playing cards, drinking heavily, and Jorah was asleep in the corner.

"Getting lonely in your private room?" Daario asked without looking up, though his tone lacked the bite he had clearly intended. He slapped a hand of cards down on the floor, and Davos looked up. Both men were bundled up in what seemed to be all of the clothing they owned.

"Lady Sansa will freeze to death before we can get the ransom for her," Jon said in a low voice, shutting the door behind him. Davos snorted.

"You can thank the ever-paranoid Grey Worm for this freeze," Daario said with a flourish. "He's convinced that someone has been watching us, and has decided that we can't make any smoke."

Jon lingered by the door, studying Jorah's sleeping form. "Jorah agrees; he thinks you were followed by Tarly's men," Daario added sourly. Daario's temper did not fare well under strain, such as hunger or cold, and that ugliness was coming out now.

There was a dull throb at his temples, and he thought he might be sick. He'd saved the roast capon from nights ago for as long as he could but at midday he had lost his mind and eaten what was left of his serving. He was used to hunger, of course, but the cold made it so much worse.

"You alright, Snow?" Davos asked now, peering at Jon. "You look a bit green."

"He's hungry. Like everyone is," Daario complained. "Your move, old man."

"You're a real pleasure to be around, Naharis," Daavos said dryly. "Who's guarding the Stark girl?"

"I am," Jon replied. "She's going to freeze."

"Try some whiskey, or wine," Davos suggested with a shrug, holding up his own flask. He nodded to a dark bottle of whiskey on a shelf in the corner. "Won't keep you warm but it'll feel like it."

At a loss for what else to do, Jon took the bottle and left the men, shutting the door behind him. The hall felt even colder, and he clutched his heavy cloak round himself. The fear of being watched was not unlike the gnawing pain of hunger. He stalked to Sansa's door, his teeth chattering, and heard a soft voice.

"Jon?"

He unlocked the door with numb fingers. Sansa was bundled up in all of the blankets on her bed, and, he noticed with a strange quiver, the traveling cloak he had wrapped her in after he'd recaptured her in the woods. She was trembling finely. "There's no wood," she said. "I need to light a fire."

"We're not allowed. Grey Worm thinks there's someone looking for us," Jon replied in a low voice.

Sansa studied him for a long moment, and he wanted to turn away from her incisive gaze but he couldn't.

"Is it always like this?"

"Comes and goes," he said shortly. "Get back to bed and close your door; it'll keep the warmth in."

She was silent for a time. Her fists clenched; she looked like she was trying to make some decision.

"You should come in too," she whispered at long last. "It's even worse out here in the hall. Come on, you can guard me just as well inside the room as out," she added in exasperation. It was hard to argue with that, especially when his head hurt so very much. Jon followed her inside in spite of his misgivings.

As though part of some agreement, they dropped onto the floor in front of the fireplace. It was like pretending they had a fire. They hunched there, across from each other, in the darkness. "What's that bottle?"

"Whiskey. Davos thought it might help," Jon explained, setting it down on the rug.

"I've never liked the taste of it," Sansa mused, taking the bottle and studying it. She cast about the room. "I have no glasses; we'll have to drink it straight from the bottle."

"You're going to drink it?" Jon asked in disbelief. "Isn't whiskey a man's liquor?"

"It's a northerner's liquor," she countered, tossing her hair in jest, and she uncapped the bottle and took a swig, and nearly choked. Her eyes teared and she coughed and sputtered. When she looked up, Jon was trying to hide his smirk.

"A northerner's liquor, is it?" he asked slyly, but he took the bottle from her all the same and took a swig as well, blinking rapidly as he swallowed. "Seven _hells_ ," he swore in a rough voice, coughing a bit.

"I suppose neither of us is a real northerner."

"Suppose not," Jon agreed, and he passed it back to her. She took another swig, and felt the liquor sliding into her belly like molten gold.

 _The pack survives,_ she thought again. She shut her eyes, thought of the man she had seen in the courtyard, thought of the boy who had been unable to stop himself from flinging his arms round every dog, overcome with the need to love something. When she opened her eyes again, his scars seemed a little softer, his eyes a little warmer. _He's all that's left of my childhood._ Perhaps it was silly to hold onto the past but she couldn't let it go. She was clinging to the wrecked wood of a ship, drowning just to hold onto the memory of it, but she'd rather that then swim away and let it sink without her.

He'd been kind, he'd been good, once. He'd loved her brothers, had played with Bran, had ridden over the moors with Robb, had taught Arya how to wield a sword. He had loved and been loved.

Why had they never had any love for each other?

It was a secret shame she had always carried, but had forgotten about. He had loved everyone but her.

 _And I had loved everyone but him,_ she recalled sadly.

"My wedding's in ..." Sansa paused in thought, "...ten days," she realized with surprise. She passed the bottle back to Jon.

"Will it be at Winterfell?"

"Yes, in the Sept."

Sansa watched Jon study the bottle. "I hope Dickon doesn't insist on a public bedding ceremony," she blurted out the fear that she had been keeping close ever since their engagement had been settled. Jon's gaze snapped to her in surprise.

"People still do that?"

"...For an engagement like this one, yes. They will ...need proof that it was consummated," she explained. Perhaps if she hadn't just taken two gulps of whiskey, she would not have found the courage to speak so frankly. Jon looked away, embarrassed.

She thought again of the bite mark on Daenerys' neck, the mark that Jon had made. She had been thinking of it for hours, unable to relinquish the image. There was something so ...tantalizing, yet terrible, about it. "What do you think makes us want to kiss?" Jon looked at her again. "I mean, I know—I know why men and women lay together," she added. She looked down at the threadbare rug now, feeling Jon's gaze heavy on her. "It's to continue the species. But kissing serves no purpose. So why do we do it?"

"I couldn't say," Jon admitted. "I've never wondered."

"I-I've barely kissed anyone." There was a loose thread in the rug and she pulled on it. "I hope Dickon is not expecting much from me." She thought of Cersei, inexplicably. "They tell you what to do, but not _how_ to do it. And the _how_ is the confusing part."

"It's not."

She had not expected him to speak. She looked up to see Jon's eyes were kind. "You'll figure it out quick enough." He passed her the bottle again, and she took it gratefully and gulped another mouthful of the burning liquor.

"I don't mean kissing," she said, her tongue feeling a bit thick for her mouth. "I mean—"

"—I know what you mean, Sansa," Jon said gently with a slight smile.

"I shouldn't be talking to you about this. I don't know why I am," she admitted. "But I've just been sitting here for days at this point with not much else to think about and I suppose it's been on my mind. Mother ...was gone...before I had the chance to ask her about it. And in King's Landing, it seemed like it was all anyone talked about, and yet half of it I didn't understand." She didn't know why she felt so desperate for Jon to understand this, to understand her confusion and her fear. "And now I'm expected to just...do it...in front of everyone. And what if..." She trailed off. She did not even know where to begin in naming her fears. Jon was still looking at her. "How do you know what to do?" she finally asked, meeting his eyes. His brows drew together as he considered her question.

"You just...do what you want to do. I guess."

"What if I don't know?"

"Dickon will know." Jon's lips twitched, and he took a mouthful of the whiskey, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I can promise you he's given it quite a lot of thought."

"He did imply he had," she admitted. A lump formed in her throat. That was the same night Jon had stolen her. "Did you _want_ to bite Daenerys' neck?"

To his credit, Jon did not seem perturbed by her question, prying though it was. He slumped back against the base of the chaise. "I saw the lovebite," she added needlessly. "I know what it was."

"I did," he said at last.

"But how did you know to? And—" her face flushed, "—did she like it?"

"Sansa," Jon protested, looking uncomfortable.

The room seemed unsteady. Sansa mopped at her cheeks, which felt warm even in the cold air.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what's got into me."

"I think whiskey's got into you," Jon said with a slight laugh. Sansa bit her lip against a laugh.

"It does help with the cold," she observed. "I almost feel too warm already."

"Empty stomach," Jon mused, but he seemed more languid, too. His cheeks were a little flushed. She thought hers must be too; she'd always gotten pink when she'd had too much wine.

"I'm sorry," she repeated suddenly. "For what I said earlier. It was unkind."

Jon looked away with a scoff, his grey eyes glimmering. "What?" she pressed.

"I stole you for ransom, and you're apologizing to me for a comment you made," he said, shaking his head.

"Was it your idea? To ransom me, I mean," she asked, leaning forward to take the bottle from him. Their fingers brushed, but they both ignored it.

"No, I was against it. I didn't think Tarly would leave Winterfell so poorly guarded, and I didn't think he'd pay any amount." Jon was staring out the window into the darkness contemplatively. "It should have been harder to take you."

"You killed a man," Sansa countered. "That is difficulty on its own."

"I thought we'd have more trouble. We _ought to_ have had more trouble. Winterfell was designed to be safe." He was frowning. "We should have had a harder time of it. Even if I had got you out of the Keep, it should not have been so easy to leave the bounds of Winterfell."

"What are you saying?"

"I don't know." He reached forward and took the bottle from her, and this time took the longest drink from it yet. "I don't drink, usually."

"I noticed," she said with a smile. She hugged her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them. She was wearing his traveling cloak out of desperation, on top of the blankets she had taken from the bed, and she wondered if he had noticed it or thought anything of it. Every time she moved she was met with a rush of his scent.

They sat in the quiet night for a long time, not speaking. The whiskey had warmed her, made her feel sleepy, and she had curled up against the feet of the armchair behind her. She watched Jon fidget with the whiskey bottle, capping it and uncapping it mindlessly with his scarred hands.

"Was it Varys? The eunuch?" she asked, suddenly remembering something Daenerys had said. _Varys did not lie—she is lovely,_ the Targaryen princess had said.

"This is why Tyrion doesn't let Dany speak," Jon mused, his head lolling back as he looked to the ceiling. "Her mouth will kill us all."

"You shouldn't trust Varys," Sansa said softly, closing her eyes and huddling closer into the pillow. She inhaled deeply; the air was sweet. "He is the Spider. And he has lots of little birds."

"Birds? What do you mean?" Jon pressed, though she couldn't remember what he had asked. She sighed into the pillow, and sank into sleep.

Jon stared across the rug at Sansa, her copper hair spilling over the pillow, pooling on the rug. The room was spinning. _Damn Davos._ He had not the stomach for liquor, and it seemed Sansa did not, either.

He set the bottle down heavily, and lurched to his feet. With clumsy hands he picked Sansa up, her face lolling into his neck, her breath warm. It was too cold, and she was too hungry, and too drunk. If Dickon Tarly ever did get her back and find out the conditions she had been exposed to, he'd kill them, rightfully so.

Jon set her on the bed. There were no more blankets; she had wrapped them all around herself. He sat on the edge of the bed heavily. He didn't want to go back into the hall. It was even colder out there. But he couldn't stay on her bed. Distantly, like a voice calling across wind, he remembered she had talked of her fear about being bedded by Dickon. He pushed himself off the bed, and sat at the edge of the room, in front of her door. If she did try to leave, she'd have to push him out of her way. Then again, she'd left through the window, last time.

He stared at the red hair, bright and vivid even in the darkness. He thought of the godswood at Winterfell, of Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon, and even Catelyn and Ned. He thought of the wolves howling at night as he slept in his room at Winterfell with the window open, the better to hear the wolves. He had not thought so much of Winterfell in so long...it was a wound being reopened; a wound he had thought had healed.

It had not been lost on him that Sansa had been trying to be kind to him, even in his drunken state. _I am a fool,_ he thought vaguely, though he forgot why he thought it in the first place, and soon, he too drifted off to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

"I see you were bonding with the Bolton boy," Father commented that night at dinner. They were eating in the Great Hall, just the two of them. Dickon felt silly, sitting there with the end of the table piled high with fancy dishes, the candles lit, when there was no one there but them. "You two are of an age. He could be like a brother to you."

"I already have a brother," Dickon replied.

"You don't," Father said in a clipped voice as he cut into the almond-crusted whitefish. It wasn't a northern dish, and it didn't taste right here. _We northmen are harder, my sweet southron lord_ , Ramsay had said. Dickon stared numbly at the untouched fish. He wasn't hungry. He hadn't been hungry for days.

"I do." There was a clatter of silver against china; his father had dropped his fork.

"You do not. Samwell is gone."

"Is he dead?"

"Does it matter? He might as well be for all it matters to us. The Seven know he probably didn't starve, at least not for a few months," his father snorted, picking up his silver again.

"I did not want you to send him away," Dickon said. He still couldn't lift his gaze from the southron dish.

"Well, I don't recall asking what you wanted, so that does not matter either," Father said.

"I'm your heir," Dickon pointed out, finally looking at his father. "How can it not matter what I want?"

"Because you're a sweet, stupid boy who knows nothing of the ways of the world."

A new devil was crouching upon his back. Dickon stared Father down.

"What secret of General Lannister are you hiding?" he asked.

His father's eyes widened, ever so slightly, then narrowed.

"You have turned rotten, I think. Like fruit gone bad. Ever since we came to the north."

"You wanted to come north. I wanted to stay at home, with Mother."

"You were just whining about the Stark girl. You couldn't have got her 'at home, with Mother,' could you?" Father pointed out, imitating his words in a high-pitched, foolish voice. He rolled his eyes and drank his wine.

"Did you know the General raped Sansa Stark?" Dickon pressed quietly. Father slammed his cup down and the wine spilled onto the table, splashing. Some splashed in his eye.

"What the General Lannister does with his time is none of my concern, nor yours. The man's earned whatever he wants; he's served his kingdom his whole life. If he wants a pretty cunt, he might as well take it."

"Did you know?"

"I know nothing about the General," he said shortly, nostrils flaring.

"Why does your face grow so red, and so sweaty, when I mention him?"

The blow hit nearly the same place where the metal seal had hit. The table shook, and Father sat back down slowly, breathing hard.

"You are rotting fruit, boy. Don't think I won't send you off just like I did with your stupid brother."

Dickon did not speak; he pressed his palm to his brow.

 _If my father had done that to me, I'd kill him._

* * *

The mist was thick, making their coats stick to their skin. Jaime was at once too warm and yet too chilled, his hands and face numb but his body overheated in the damp. He had always hated the weather of the north. If you weren't freezing your damn balls off, you were soaking wet—and if you weren't frozen or soaking wet, you were unexpectedly warm, or else so wind-chapped your face felt it might fall off. He thought he'd never be dry again.

"We're nearing Moat Cailin. We should be there soon," Bronn said, peering round them. "Within the hour. Varys said we'll see the smoke from the house."

"Might be they didn't light their fires," Jaime pointed out.

"It's an old stone house. Of course they lit their fires. It's the Dothraki, they're not used to the cold."

"They've been in the north long enough."

The lilac dawn silhouetted the trees on the ridge up ahead. The dawn was too quiet; they were close, he could feel it. Closer than they had planned.

"I'll take the Stark girl, she knows me," Jaime reasoned as they rode together.

"And leave all the fun for me? That's unlike you, my lord," Bronn snorted. "Just as well. I heard the Beggar Princess is beautiful."

"Beautiful or not, you'll bring her head back for the King," Jaime replied. "I suppose having a pretty head up on the pikes will be a pleasant change."

"Though the silver hair might clash with the Baratheon colours," Bronn mused. "What of your brother?"

"Unless he's lost his mind, he'll slip away," Jaime dismissed.

"Right, of course. ...But what if he doesn't?"

"Leave him to me," Jaime resolved, after a long pause. He had not seen Tyrion in ten years. Ten years Tyrion had been fighting for Daenerys Targaryen's claim to the throne, and it seemed a shame for it to all end here: in a pitiful house in the middle of a bog in the north. He wondered what had possessed Tyrion to fight for the losing side. It was not a Lannister move to make, and Tyrion was supposedly the clever one.

"Horses have been here." Bronn pointed to gashes in the mud. Up ahead at the top of a ridge, an old stone wall rose up, of white stone turned nearly black with age. Beyond the old wall, there was a thin plume of smoke.

"We've found them," Jaime said.

* * *

Jon's head was throbbing in time with his heart, and his stomach squirmed uncomfortably when he woke. His mouth was dry, his chapped lips sticking together. With a groan he mopped at his face and sat up. He'd been asleep on a floor, but why?

Vague recollections of sitting with Sansa, talking with her about her fears about sex, came back to him. He blinked as her room came into focus around him, turned blue in the pre-dawn. Just when he spotted the bottle of whiskey across the room, his stomach gave another lurch, and he sank lower, curling onto his side.

He should not have done any of it: the whiskey, the talking...falling asleep in her room. If she ever told her future husband how she had been treated here, he really would kill him. He didn't know what had got into him. It had been the cold, and the hunger. Now he was still cold, fingers stiff with it, and his stomach was in so much pain half from hunger and half from drink, that he did not know if he even wanted to eat. He supposed that was for the best.

He heard a shout downstairs, but when there didn't seem to be any more trouble, he decided to ignore it. He did not feel very much like sitting up just yet. Soft footsteps padded over to him; he watched the many blankets drag across the floor. Sansa knelt before him, puffy-eyed and pale.

"You look awful," she whispered. Jon covered his face with his arm.

"Go back to bed," he groaned, his voice muffled by the fabric.

"I'm so hungry and cold I feel I might die." He heard her slump down on the floor. "How can you stand it?"

"It's worse if you think about it. Sleeping will help."

"I can't make myself sleep. I keep trying."

Sansa scooted next to him. "What's the longest you've gone without food?"

"Eighteen days." That had been a bad stretch after crossing the Narrow Sea. Too many of their force had died on that journey, and the rest of them had languished for a very long time, sick and starving, in Gulltown. That whole time had turned into a blur for him; they had disembarked and he had spent more than two weeks lying on the floor of some cramped inn, jumbled in with all of the other men, only moving to heave into a bucket across the floor.

"I went three days without food once, in King's Landing. It was my hunger strike," Sansa mused. "But then I fainted and one of the Maesters made me eat anyway."

"Three days is long enough."

There was another shout, and then, unmistakably, Daario's furious voice, followed by the lower, smoother rhythm of Grey Worm's voice. Jon pushed himself to sit up, his arm brushing against Sansa. He pulled his arm away hastily, the room spinning. He swallowed against nausea. "I'm never drinking whiskey, ever again," he confessed in a raw voice, before getting to his feet unsteadily. "I think I hear shouting; I'd better go see what they've done," he explained in resignation. He held out his hand to Sansa to help her up. She was still wearing his cloak, and she looked deadly pale. He helped her to her feet, then snatched his hand back and left.

Daario's voice was rising in rage; Jon could tell even as he walked down the hall. He got to the top of the stairs and saw Davos and Jorah. Jorah looked up at Jon from the foot of the stairs and shook his head.

"What's happened?"

"I'm surprised you didn't come sooner. They've been at it for a while," Jorah murmured as Jon went to stand beside him. In the entrance to the house, the door hung open, letting even more cold air in, but no one seemed to notice. Daario and Grey Worm were facing each other, chests rising and falling rapidly. Dany was between them, wrapped in blankets from her bed, with Tyrion looking on, dressed only in his nightshirt.

"It does not matter, Grey Worm," she said in a hard voice. "If anyone were watching, they would have come by now."

"We are freezing in this fucking house! We are all going to die! Perhaps someone is watching; let them come! They'll come to find us all icicles!" Daario yelled, his face red.

"It was Davos' damn whiskey," Jon replied under his breath, and Jorah and Davos chuckled quietly.

"You have put us all in danger," Grey Worm said flatly. "We have too many enemies to be lighting fires."

"The Princess was going to freeze," Daario countered, gesturing to Dany hotly. "We are freezing and starving. You don't let us hunt, you don't let us light fires. How can we hope to fight for Princess Daenerys' cause if we're all starving and freezing?"

"If we are found by the wrong people, their guns will kill us faster than hunger or cold."

"You know, it must be because you haven't got balls," Daario started with a laugh. Davos let out a soft sigh.

"Not this again. He needs to find something new to add to his repertoire."

"Grey Worm doesn't exactly leave himself open to much. The balls are the only thing the Tyroshi has over him," Jorah mused. Davos conceded with a nod.

Jon was mid-laugh when the air was rent with a horrific crack.

The world seemed to go silent for one terrible moment as they all collectively realized that the worst had happened.

 _Sansa_ , was Jon's first and only thought.

They scattered in an explosion of noise. The disagreement forgotten, Daario and Jorah snatched Daenerys away from the door with Tyrion following them, whilst Davos and Grey Worm sprinted out the front door.

Jon should have gone with Davos and Grey Worm.

He ran upstairs instead.

The sickness, the headache, the gnawing hunger—he forgot all of it. He ripped open Sansa's door to find her already dressed and now tying her hair back in a thick plait.

"Redcoats," they said at the same moment.

If she wanted to escape, this was her moment to do it. Jon assumed she had some plan in mind and was feigning going along with him for now, but he didn't dwell on it. He grabbed her by her slender elbow and dragged her to his own room, where he snatched his sword, rifle, and bow and arrows.

"You'll stay with me," he told her at the top of the stairs, still gripping her arm. Sansa's eyes were wide. "You'll do what I say, exactly as I say it."

He did not wait for her reply; he was thundering down the stairs, still gripping her arm, his sword and arrows ratting with the movement. Instead of going out the front door, they went to the back of the house, and exploded out the back door into the kitchen garden. There was a narrow gate; it was useless for anyone on horseback, but it would be perfect for his purposes. There were gashes in the mud leading to the gate; they must have already taken Dany through this way.

Sansa thought she might vomit. Her stomach was filled with acid, and it only felt worse as they broke into a run after passing through the narrow gate. She heard more rifles fired, more shouts and screams, the shriek of horses and the clang of swords.

Jon had not loosened his grip on her arm. In the woods beyond the wall, he dragged her against a tree and covered her with his body, as he scanned the woods around them carefully, his breathing low and even.

In the distance, she saw two redcoats on bright white horses running down two of Daenerys' army; the men had arakhs that they turned on the horses. Blood redder than the soldiers' coats spurted from the horses as they screamed and fell, but the soldiers did not even seem to pause as they leapt off their horses and drew their swords. More rifles fired, the shots echoing through the woods, and the bark of a nearby tree splintered with a stray bullet.

Sansa let out a gasp that was cut off by Jon's gloved hand as he clapped it over her mouth. He was pressing her against the tree, so that she could not move. The bark hurt through her dress and cloak, and his body was hard against her.

What if this was her chance to escape? What if they had come to save her? It hardly seemed likely, and yet, the Tarlys were beloved by the Crown. Dickon might have been able to exert some influence... And yet...

Daenerys' men felled the redcoats, who lay slain alongside their horses, and they each circled round, looking for the next enemy.

Out of nowhere, a bright white horse dashed through the mud towards them. A tall figure sat erect atop the horse, and even in the mist his sword gleamed for one shining moment. The two men raised their arakhs, but before they could make another move, the redcoat swung his lovely sword, and in one clean stroke beheaded both men.

His horse skidded in the mud as he came to an abrupt stop; the men dropped behind him, their heads rolling away, sickening thumps in the mud, and the force of the movement swept his fine black hat right off his head.

Even in the mist, the thick golden hair was unmistakable. No other man sat like that upon his horse, no other man held a sword like that. He looked like a god, even blood- and mud-splattered as he was. She would know him anywhere.

Jaime Lannister paused, studying his surroundings critically. He had been born for war, bred to wear the red coat and sit upon the perfect white horse and swing a sword that glittered with rubies. He had been made for beautiful violence. Her heart was in her throat. She had not been prepared to see the general.

But then Jon yanked her forward, and they skidded in the mud down the hill, into a tangled ravine. The mist was so thick that they could no longer see more than an arm's length in front of them. They thrashed through boggy water, gasping. They were making too much noise, but it mattered not: they had to put as much distance between them and the redcoats as they could. Distance was best; it was their only hope.

She could scream. She willed herself to scream.

If she screamed, they would come, and they would save her.

If she screamed, they would come, and they would kill Jon.

There were hoofbeats; someone was coming for them. Jon still pulled her along relentlessly, glancing back with measured looks, in the direction of the hoofbeats. They were climbing upward out of the ravine, scrabbling against muddy rocks and bramble, panting and gasping. She was too weak for this; her legs would not move the way Jon wanted her legs to move. She was dizzy and sick and weak. As they crested the hill and came to a small grove, she fell to her knees, dry-heaving.

"Keep moving," Jon demanded in a low voice, attempting to pull her to her feet. He gripped her arms again and tried to drag her, and she stumbled, the world spinning, into Jon's arms, nearly toppling him over. "No," he growled, and for one last moment they ran together—and then heard a callous laugh.

"A Targaryen boy stealing a Stark girl. I suppose it runs in the family."

Jaime Lannister stood at the edge of the grove behind them, aiming his rifle at Jon. His golden hair was stuck in thick clumps against his temples and neck, his breeches stained with mud and other men's blood, but even so, he still looked like a god, terrible and golden.

"We're keeping her for ransom. Dickon Tarly is to meet us in a few days to negotiate her ransom," Jon called across the clearing. Jaime scoffed, lowering his rifle, his lovely eyes, so like the queen regent's, dancing with laughter.

"You're a bit behind the times, but I've heard the Targaryens don't read, so perhaps you've not picked up a paper. Sansa Stark is actually engaged to Lord Petyr Baelish—better known to many of us as Littlefinger—not the Tarly brat. My orders are to kill the Targaryens and return Sansa Stark to King's Landing, to her newest fiancee." He glanced at Sansa. "You do go through rather a lot of them, don't you?"

"K-king's Landing? No," she breathed in horror, sinking to her knees. Everything seemed to disappear around her, though she felt Jon's hand as he tried to pull her back up. "No. I can't go back," she choked, bracing herself in the mud on shaking hands. She couldn't breathe. "Not to King's Landing."

She felt them looking at her; she wished they would look away. She did not want anyone to see her like this, to witness this private pain. Horror, hot and acidic, coursed through her. She couldn't go back to King's Landing. Not ever again. She would not.

"Well, let's see if the Targaryen will fight for you." Jaime tossed aside his rifle and drew his sword in a motion as fluid as a lady's dance. "Come on, Jon Snow...I've been dying to see if you've gotten any of your father's gifts. You certainly didn't get his looks...or his manners. Perhaps you got his singing voice!" Jaime mused brightly. "Oh, and he was always rather good with a harp."

Jon drew his own sword, in a much sharper, more deadly movement. "Last time I saw you, you were a snot-nosed brat. You didn't grow much, I have to say," Jaime continued as they circled each other.

"Last time I saw you, you weren't old," Jon countered pointedly. Jaime threw back his head and laughed.

"Point taken, blunt though it was," he conceded. "I'm older than you, but I can still out-fight every single man in my garrison." The distance between them shortened.

Sansa fell back against a tree, weak with terror.

 _I can't go back_ , she had said to Jon. _You can't go forward, either,_ he had replied.

And here she was again. If Jaime won, she would be taken back to King's Landing...to Lord Baelish, no less. She would not go back.

Had Dickon planned to sell her to Littlefinger the whole time? She could not breathe. She tried, again and again, to draw in a breath, but her lungs were useless.

If Jon won...she did not know what might happen. She was worthless to him now. Could she go forward?

She did not know who she wanted to win, and she did not know who would win.

Jaime Lannister was considered one of the best swordsmen in the world...but she had seen Jon fight, even just as sport, as a way to pass the time.

The first clash of swords was a blur that left the wood ringing. They were too fast; she could hardly judge what they did. This was not the elegant dance that she had watched in the armories at King's Landing, nor was it the desperate squabbling of bandits killing on the road. This was different, at an elemental level. It was too quick to be graceful but too fluid to be violent.

They were perfectly, evenly matched. At one moment, they were mere inches from each other, hands shaking as one sword blocked the other in place, and then, in a ringing of metal as musical as a bell, they were thrown back from each other, but neither stumbled. Jon spun in place and nearly landed a blow that would have cut Jaime's torso clean in half, but Jaime ducked back with ease, blond hair flying, green leonine eyes gleaming with something like lust.

And then Jaime started to gain the upper hand, after forces meeting so equally. Jon was losing ground, his parries and jabs becoming messier, more desperate. Sansa wondered if this would have been the case had he had a proper meal in the last few days; his loss of ground spoke of exhaustion coming too soon. Jon ducked as Jaime swung, and Jaime's blade slashed at his riding leathers, cutting a deep gash in the dark leather and spraying a fine line of red. Jon barely acknowledged the wound as he continued to block Jaime's blows which were becoming ever faster.

Jon's movements grew more ragged, more wild, as Jaime backed him closer and closer to where Sansa knelt. Jon ducked and parried, weaved and slashed, but he was losing.

And yet—out of nowhere—Jaime's sword flew out of his hand and landed a few feet away, its blade gleaming ruby red with Jon's blood. Both men were gasping, breaths clouding in the air, skin slick with sweat and mist. Jon's sword was pointed at Jaime.

"It seems you've bested me," Jaime observed, holding his hands up. "What a shame. Lord Baelish will be so disappointed when the garrison returns home empty-handed without his lovely fiancee...and he went to such trouble to get her, too."

He'd thrown his sword. Jon had not bested him. Yet Jon seemed to understand faster than Sansa, who could only stare numbly at Jaime.

"You should be wounded. I'll do it; you won't be able to do it at a believable angle," Jon said immediately, going to Jaime. Jaime braced himself as Jon lightly slashed his blade against Jaime's thigh; bright red bloomed along his breeches. Jaime grit his teeth.

"Wh-what?" Sansa asked helplessly. She met Jaime's green, catlike eyes.

"Go," he said, even as Jon was pulling her.

"I don't—"

"Go, you damned fool, go with Snow," Jaime snapped now. Jon grappled for her hand desperately, and she was yanked backwards. Jaime stood in the center of the grove, dripping blood, watching as they stumbled back into the woods, his shoulders rising and falling as he caught his breath. He became a blur of red and gold and white as tears filled Sansa's vision. Her debts to the Lannister general would never stop mounting, it seemed.

She wrenched her gaze from him and looked forward as they ran, breathless, through the wood.

Dickon had sold her.

She would never go back to Winterfell now.

She would never get married, not unless she wanted to marry Lord Baelish.

Everything that she had thought her life would be—all of it had been blown to pieces. So she ran, because she could do nothing else. She ran, her lungs burning, tears streaming down her cheeks for a grief she could not name, tears that became one with the mist. Sansa Stark was disappearing—so who was the girl left in her place, running through the woods with Jon Snow?

"Tyrion and Jorah and Daario will have taken Dany to the Barrowlands," Jon panted as they paused, gasping, leaning against a tree, after a long time of running. It had begun to rain again. Sansa dropped to her knees, her whole body quivering with exhaustion. "That was always our plan."

"Will you go there?" she asked, between gasps. She angrily mopped her stupid hair out of her eyes and wished her stupid eyes would stop their stupid crying.

Jon dropped to his knees before her, taking her hands in his. His hair was wild and clinging wetly to his forehead and jawline; the sleeve of his leathers was shining with blood where Jaime had cut him.

" _We_ will go there," he corrected her fiercely. Sansa closed her eyes, even as more stupid tears slipped out. She let out a choked sob.

"I—why would he—it makes no sense," she gasped, chest heaving. "None of it makes any sense. Why are you taking me? I am worthless to you now."

"You're not worthless." His grip on her hands was painfully tight, and she opened her eyes to meet his gaze once more. "You're not worthless," he said once more, softer this time. "Come with me to the Barrowlands."

"I was unkind to you," she said into the rain. She noticed how the rain made his dark lashes stick together in clumps. He really was painfully beautiful. "Why would you help me now?"

"You were a child, Sansa," he replied with gentle eyes. "But you are kind now, and brave, and gentle, and strong. You deserve your freedom." He released her hands, and braced her by her shoulders, pulling her up.

On shaking legs, with Jon's help, she got to her feet. The woods were alive with the rain, and she had never been so hungry nor so exhausted in her life. And she was sad, so sad, so filled with grief for everything that she had thought she had, though now she saw she had never had it to begin with.

They came to the edge of the woods, and sodden green land, dotted with translucent, melting mounds of snow and chalky white rock, stretched out before them. In the distance, the ridges were blue and grey, shifting and blurred in the rain. The wide world stretched out before her, and once again breathing was hard.

 _You deserve your freedom._

She clutched at the bark of a tree for strength as it all came crashing down on her. She had been defined by her worth in marriage for so long. Held as a captive in King's Landing because to marry her was to own Winterfell; traded between Cersei, Randyll Tarly, and Petyr Baelish as a mere pawn; captured by Jon for the ransom her betrothed would surely pay...her life could be segmented into periods bookended by which man she was supposed to marry.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, reeling. Jon paused in his walking to look back at her.

"Sorry," she breathed. "I just—I just need a moment."

Now the Tarlys owned Winterfell, and she had nothing of value left to offer anyone. The green sea of grass and snow seemed to go on forever. She had never before looked in front of her and wondered which way she might go.

"I—I am sorry. About Dickon Tarly," Jon said, stepping closer to her, misinterpreting her emotion. She shook her head mutely.

"Don't be," she finally said. "I think I'm happy, but I—I can't actually tell," she admitted with a rush of desperate laughter. Jon's lips twitched.

"I think you're relieved," he observed. "Come, we need to find a place to set up camp...and we need to hunt."

"With the arrows?" she asked, hastening to follow him.

"Yes; we'll need to save the bullets," Jon reasoned. "It'll be at least a day's journey. I don't know what we'll encounter on the way."

There was a warning in his voice.

"We did just escape the greatest general that the army has ever seen," Sansa pointed out, as she came to walk alongside him. They broke free from the woods and were now in the open field, the rain soaking them anew, but it felt good. "I like our odds, I think."

* * *

Men lay slain in the courtyard. Jaime watched his own garrison plundering through the house, hauling out trunks full of swords, dirks, and rifles. Some of the soldiers were leading the horses that had remained in the stables.

"We never even saw the Targaryen girl," Bronn observed as they watched the men. Jaime's leg throbbed lightly where Jon Snow had cut him.

"The Stark bitch got away, too," Jaime replied. "The Targaryen boy took her."

"Huh." Bronn's swarthy eyes flicked to Jaime's wound. "Rhaegar all over again."

"Funny, that was what I thought, too."

"These Stark cunts must truly be special," Bronn remarked, his voice skeptical.

The wind blew the rain harder upon them. Jaime thought of that flaming copper hair flying out in a messy plait, those blue eyes widening in horror. Not King's Landing, Sansa Stark had whispered, sinking to her knees. He had never seen her look so defeated, and he had seen her in quite a lot of pain in his time. "He's not like Rhaegar," Jaime said now. He felt Bronn looking at him. "He's a better swordsman. A lot better." He thought of those grey eyes. He had once thought Jon Snow looked exactly like Eddard Stark, but now he realized he'd been wrong: Jon Snow looked like his mother.

"I can see that."

"He might be the best swordsman I've ever seen."

"Better than me? I doubt it," Bronn said with a smirk. "What will we do now?"

He dreaded going back to King's Landing, empty-handed, like this. He thought of Cersei and Tywin's faces. _Cersei will know_ , he thought. If she looked him in the eye, she'd see through it all, and she would know he had let Sansa Stark get away.

"Go back. Tell them we failed," Jaime said carelessly. "Come on, the journey back will take forever, especially now we've got all these damn horses. A whole lot of horseshit, that's what Varys' word was worth, as it turns out." He kicked aside the corpse of a Dothraki, and Bronn followed.


	7. Chapter 7

"You'll want leathers, my sweet southron lord. Velvet won't fare so well in these northern winds and rains." Ramsay tossed him riding clothing that was far rougher and less ornamented than Dickon's own riding clothes. Dickon held up the leathers to examine them. Ramsay was shorter than him, and leaner too, but they might still fit.

Outside the sky was still lightening as morning stretched over the land—if they rode fast, they'd catch up with the Lannister's garrison on their way back from the Targaryen holdfast, perhaps at the first village past Cerwyn.

"So we'll just sort of...scare him," Dickon confirmed, after they had dressed, as they walked to the Dreadfort's stables. The Dreadfort was a crude, primitive structure, hearkening back to the days of knights and perhaps even beyond that, and the courtyard surrounding the stables was little more than a square of packed earth. Carvings of stone white as bone held the braziers along the wall, and they looked oddly like human hands. In the wrong light, they could have _been_ human skeleton hands. Dickon would be glad to leave the Dreadfort. It made Winterfell look positively cozy.

"It's your call." Ramsay tossed him a leather hood, then strapped his quiver and bow onto his back. "You're my lord now; I'll do as you say."

"I don't want to force you into anything," Dickon said uncertainly, taking the hood and examining it. It looked like an executioner's hood. He pulled it on over his head. Ramsay had mounted his own horse, a muddy grey pony. He pulled his own hood down over his face, so only those eerie blue eyes peered out, pale as a frozen pond.

"My lord," Ramsay began impatiently, "this is for you. We are avenging you. So tell me, what do you want? Forget me, forget your father—forget even Sansa Stark. What is it you want?"

Dickon mounted his own finer horse, the hood growing hot quickly. He pulled at it to let a bit of air in. The leather smelled odd. He remembered it was, technically, animal skin that he was wearing against his own face. _I'm becoming a savage_ , he thought as he kicked his heel into his horse's side and they set off across the narrow bridge leading out of the Dreadfort. _A northern savage._

What was it that he wanted? He immediately thought of Sam, of Mother, of the golden fields and blue skies and lush green of the Reach. But he could not have that—Sam was gone, probably dead, and their home was Winterfell now. So what did he want?

His brow throbbed where his father had hit him. Later he had tried not to cry as he hid in the armory and pounded a training sack—burlap stuffed with flour and tied crudely into the shape of a man—until the white stuff poofed out, getting everywhere, and still he punched and hit it, until the urge to cry had passed. _What, are you a girl?_ He had remembered all of the things Father had called Sam. He'd never called Dickon those things, before. Now he did. Ladyboy, cunt, and worse. _I'm not a girl,_ he had thought, punching the bag over and over. _I'm not a girl, not a girl._

"What would you do?" Dickon asked, riding faster to join with Ramsay.

"Me?" Ramsay sounded almost flattered. "My opinion is of no importance, my liege lord," he said obsequiously.

"Of course it is," Dickon insisted. "You're the only one helping me."

"I'm a northman, Lord Tarly. My father and I swear allegiance to you, and to the crown, but we are still the savage northerners you have been told the stories about," Ramsay reasoned. "My instinct is to take the Lannister general and flay him 'til he has no more skin, to torture him until he begs for mercy. But you are a sweet, civilized, educated southron man; you don't have such hard, vicious impulses. I'm sure you will do whatever is kind, and show the man the Mother's mercy."

"We are not so gentle in the south," Dickon argued, bristling. "King's Landing is a nest of vipers."

"I'm sure it is, my lord. I'm sure that in between all of the dancing and singing and powdered wigs you have just as much savagery."

Dickon rode faster, rode so hard into the driving rain that Ramsay had to struggle for his pony to keep up with him.

* * *

Even getting to the next village took the whole damn morning. They couldn't exactly leave without the horses and artillery—they had not got the Beggar Princess or the Stark girl after all; they had to come back with something—but lugging fifty horses and dozens of trunks full of weapons was slow work. They were about an hour's ride south of Cerwyn when they came to a village. Jaime's leg wouldn't stop bleeding, and he was feeling increasingly hassled. The Dothraki horses were weak, and they even lost a few of them on the short journey to the village.

"The lot was starving, I think," Bronn said as one of the soldiers shot a horse whose leg had been lamed by the uneven ground. It was pouring, of course, because that was what the North did. It was like a woman, crying endlessly, or else raging with wind and snow.

"We'll stop at the next village and feed them and rest," Jaime said through grit teeth. "This is probably folly to take them; most of them are probably past the point of help. And no one knows how to ride the damn things."

At this rate it would be spring before they got back to King's Landing. They stopped at the village, and again the northerners looked upon Jaime, and Jaime alone, with such loathing that it made his skin burn with awareness. They took up the only inn in the village, and the horses sprawled well beyond the stables, and into the fields beyond the village. It was all a mess, an unsolvable mess. He was unaccustomed to failure; he was learning that he liked it not.

The Targaryens were more organized than he had initially assumed: they had clearly had an escape plan ready and waiting in the event of attack. No one had even seen the Targaryen girl, nor Tyrion, and the men who had remained at the holdfast had been ready to fight to the death—and fight to the death many of them did. They were also far more disciplined fighters, and many of them—rather, most of them—not Dothraki at all.

And then, Jon Snow...Jaime could have killed him, skilled and talented though the Targaryen boy was, so why had he not? Why had he thrown his sword? He had known he would do it even as he had crested the ridge and seen the boy dragging the Stark girl. He could have shot him; he could have simply shot them both. Perhaps it would have been the kindest thing to do.

He had no idea of how many of the Targaryen force had escaped the holdfast, but if even a tenth of them remained, they were still far stronger than anyone had realized. And the rumor was that Jorah Mormont and Davos Seaworth had joined the cause. So Daenerys Targaryen now had a veteran soldier—Mormont—who had once been one of the royal army's best fighters, and a legendary smuggler—Seaworth—and Tyrion, a famed strategist, and, if the word of Bronn and the other men was to be believed, some of the most vicious and disciplined fighters they had ever seen. And she also had Jon Snow, the best swordsman Jaime had ever seen in his life. Rhaegar had been somewhat talented but he had fallen easily. Jon Snow was his own breed.

And now Daenerys had Sansa Stark, too, thanks to him. And this was no small thing. Sansa Stark had been gifted with a fine mind, finer than too many realized. She was as clever as Tyrion, and her knowledge of both the Northern clans and Southron families was vast, extensive, nuanced. Not to mention she was as symbolic of the North as Winterfell itself. If Daenerys wanted to rally the Northern houses behind her, she now had been given the single most valuable tool to do so.

No wonder his father so often called him the stupid one.

Tense and irritable, Jaime took to his room, where Bronn helped him bandage the wound that Jon Snow had given him. They did not speak; Bronn seemed to sense Jaime's mood, and wisely did not test him.

* * *

"We'll need to find a place to camp, first," Jon said as they trudged through the sodden grass. "And we need food."

"Where are we going in the Barrowlands?"

"We've got a man there, acting as an outpost. He's a former member of the Kingsguard—"

"—Not Sir Barristan Selmy?" Sansa asked in surprise. Jon's gaze snapped to her.

"That's right, you must have known him."

"Of course. I remember the day Joff banished him. I wondered what had happened to him. I always thought Joff was a fool to banish him, and now I have proof," she said with some satisfaction. "He went to the other side after all."

Jon was trying not to smile at her smugness. There was a lightness, a brightness, about her that was infectious, even in the pouring rain. She seemed to float.

They came to another copse of trees, set into a smaller ridge dotted with stones. On the other side, the ridge hung over the ground, pinned by rock, to create a decent enough shelter from the wind. It was late afternoon now, and soon darkness would fall. They needed to set up camp now.

"We'll camp here for the night," Jon said as they huddled into the hole against the wind and rain. Already it was a relief just to be out of the downpour. "I'll see what I can hunt."

"What about me? What should I do?" Sansa pressed, as he dropped his weapons in a sodden heap.

"Get dry." Sansa was wringing her hands, looking so eager to help. Jon cast his gaze about the campsite in exasperation. "Try to build up the rocks, I guess, against the west wind. The rain'll be coming from that direction tonight, most like. But don't hurt yourself," he warned. "You've not eaten in days, don't forget."

"Neither have you," Sansa argued. Jon gave her a half-smile.

"I'm used to it," he pointed out. He turned and set back out into the rain with his bow and arrows. There was a run of trees that he thought might bring him some luck. When he glanced back, Sansa was struggling to lift a rock, her face set in determination.

Jon became a blur in the rain, and Sansa set to work gathering the rocks to build a wall, but it was harder than she might have guessed. The rocks wouldn't stop rolling, and all too quickly, she began to feel dizzy and weak, and had to sit down, panting. When she looked at her progress, she became furious. It looked like she had done nothing, and it certainly wouldn't do anything to block out the rain.

After half an hour of struggling, she decided to give up. She had piled up all of the rocks she could lift, and they made a neat little wall that was pretty but useless.

She might be able to build a fire, though everything was so wet, and she'd never built one before. She wandered around the ridge, looking for sticks that might have been a bit sheltered from the rain. She found a decent number, and dumped them in the shelter of the wall of dirt, and then took some of the rocks from her little wall and built them up around the sticks, to protect them.

 _There._ Feeling immensely pleased with herself, she looked around their little campsite, thinking of what else she might do, and quite suddenly, she realized they would be sleeping together.

Her whole body seemed to flush with embarrassment. They had no sleeping skins, no blankets, no beds—only the cloaks on their back.

 _This is what the smallfolk do_ , she told herself bravely. _I'm no lady anymore; I will do what I must to survive._

But she had only a lady's skills. She knew only how to dance and sing and curtsey and weave. She could identify precisely the type of spoon necessary for every kind of soup, and she knew what colours were acceptable to wear to every kind of wedding, and she could name all of the important families in the kingdom and identify their heraldry—but she did not know how to start a fire, or hunt for her own food, or even how to set up a campsite.

She looked round at the tall reeds and the sparse trees. She couldn't even see Jon anymore. Was there any game to be had here? She didn't even know what sort of game they would find. Rabbits? Deer?

Jon walked back to the campsite with two rangy rabbits strung on his bow. Even from a distance he could see Sansa's bright hair. The campsite came into view, slowly in the rain. She'd built up a little structure in the middle, he could see. He was not looking forward to attempting to start a fire in this weather. If he could find any dry kindling, it would be a miracle.

When he reached the campsite, he almost wanted to laugh. Sansa had built a tiny little wall with a mason's accuracy, demarcating the edge of their shelter, and had used the rest of the rocks to make a little mound in the middle, just out of the rain, that was filled with sticks. She rose to her feet when she saw him.

"Did you find anything?"

"Not much. Rabbit," he said, swinging his bow down to show her. She flinched at the sight of the rabbits, but did not comment on them.

"I tried to find some dry wood, but there wasn't much," she rambled anxiously. "Hopefully the wood has dried; I tried to keep it out of the rain."

Jon studied the kindling she had collected.

"That's good," he said with a nod. "That should be enough to start a decent fire." She was still looking at him, biting her lip, waiting for him to tell her how she could help. "...We'll need three sticks, to make a spit. One longer one, to span the fire, and two to hold it up. About this high," he said, holding his hand above the campfire she had built. Sansa nodded and immediately ventured into the rain once more.

She had made two little seats out of stone, out of the rain, before the campfire, and she'd dug out a bit of an alcove into the packed earth, big enough for a body to fit into. Jon settled onto one of the seats heavily, with his two rabbits in tow, and took out his dirk.

They'd have to share the cloaks. There was nothing else to be done about it. He told himself that it would be no different than sharing sleeping skins with Jorah or Davos or Daario or Grey Worm, as he had done so many times. Nothing unusual about it, nothing to be awkward about. _Survival tactics_ , he reminded himself, his face flushing, as he stripped the furry skin off the rabbits.

Sansa soon returned, with about ten times as many sticks as they needed, and dumped the bundle in front of him.

"Will any of these work?" she asked breathlessly, kneeling beside him and spreading them out. He tried not to laugh at her sincerity.

"Those two," he pointed out with his dirk, "and that one there. Here, watch." He took the longer of the three and began hacking at either end, making it come to points. "This'll make it easier to turn. Give me the other two, now." Sansa quickly handed him the other sticks, and he cut into their ends, then made sharp points at the other ends.

Wordlessly, they built the spit over the firepit. She'd actually done a surprisingly good job of building the firepit and keeping the kindling dry. She watched him intently, biting her lip in concentration. "Now we have to start a fire," he continued. "It has to get pretty hot before we can start cooking."

She nodded fiercely, her gaze trained on his hands as he started the fire. It took a few tries, because the wind was blowing hard and wet, but soon the kindling caught flame, and they watched the pale yellow flame curl and lick about the leaves and twigs. The flame snapped and crackled, as they angled their bodies to protect it from the winds.

His first few months with Daenerys kept coming back to him, from watching Sansa. Viserys had still been alive, then, and Jon had been so anxious, so on edge, so determined to earn his place with them. He'd been so grateful to have a family, but so painfully homesick for Winterfell, and so fearful of the future. He'd been a boy, then, so accustomed to being ignored by Catelyn and her brood, and was ready to fight for any chance of acceptance, of warmth. He had lost all designs of status, of esteem, and would have done anything that Viserys or Dany asked of him.

"I'm so hungry," Sansa suddenly said in a rush. "I can't even look at the rabbits. They make me want to cry, but I also want to eat them," she laughed.

"They weren't particularly endearing," Jon consoled her. "Every animal stops looking like a sweet pet when you're hungry enough."

The sky darkened as they tended to the fire, and for a brief time, the rains even let up. They sat in their shelter, poking at the fire, watching it grow hotter and brighter between them. Jon watched Sansa watch the fire, wondering what she might be thinking. She looked like she was somewhere far off, somewhere he could not go, as she stared at the flames.

And for the first time since that morning, he allowed himself to think of his duel with Jaime Lannister. He had never met a finer swordsman. Jaime Lannister could have killed him, would have killed him, with just a few more swings of his sword. Yet he had unmistakably cast his sword down.

Hell, he could have killed them as soon as he'd caught them on the ridge. He'd had his rifle aimed at Jon, and Jon would have bet his sword that Lannister was as sure a shot as he was with a sword.

So why had he let them go?

Something in the man's face had changed when they had each watched Sansa drop to her knees in cold horror, as she realized she would have to go back to King's Landing. The very tone of her voice had scalded him, but Jon was not ruthless. He was weak, he knew; he was soft-hearted. It was Lannister who was notoriously ruthless—after all, he had won the royal army more greatness than any that had come before him. He was a war machine, a weapon unto himself, and his deeds of greatness and terror were practically legend at this point. Before Jon had even learned to duel with a real sword, Jaime Lannister had swept nations, killed thousands. He was without mercy, without fear.

So why had he let them go?

It could not have merely been Sansa's whisper of horror as she had dropped to her knees, he was sure of it. Lannister had had too many opportunities to kill him before then; as they had been running back up the other side of the ravine, he could have easily shot Jon. Then as they had both come into the clearing, he had had a clear shot of Jon then, too. And certainly, the moment they had crossed swords, he could have ended his life.

No, he had never intended to kill him or take Sansa. Jon was sure of it.

Jon speared the two rabbits on the spit, showing Sansa as he worked. She went a bit pale at the sight of all of the blood, but she didn't mention it.

"Where will Daenerys go now?" she asked as Jon turned the spit slowly, watching the meat cook.

"We have supporters in some of the clans, but we're at a standstill," Jon said honestly. _No point in hiding it._ "She can't march, yet, and the Crown is too intent on getting rid of the threat she poses, so she can't walk freely."

"If she hides much longer, any spark she might have started will go out," Sansa reasoned, hugging her knees to her chest. "They laugh about her in King's Landing. We called her the Beggar Princess. No one ever called her by name, but it seemed that in every play, she was a character of folly. Even in the papers, they would make fun of her by reference."

"That was Tyrion's doing," Jon said. "When he was still part of the royal council, he started her smear campaign. He told us his strategies himself. Now he wants to use those same strategies against King Joffrey. It worked, in Essos."

"But Joff doesn't rule Essos," Sansa countered. "What does it matter?"

"It helped us get this far. We'd never have gotten the ships to cross the Narrow Sea without it."

"I don't think the North will pay attention to those strategies," Sansa said now. "They're not united the way they are in the south. There's no central place of culture, the way there is in the south, and even in Essos."

"Aye, the only way is if the Northern clans band together—"

"—Which they haven't done since Father stormed King's Landing with King Robert," Sansa finished for him. "They laugh about the northern clans in King's Landing, too, and they're not wrong. The clans are too busy fighting each other."

"Not all of them." Jon slid the cooked meat off the spit, and began cutting it with his dirk. "The Mormonts—"

"—Karstarks, Umbers, and Tallharts, yes, and even supposedly the Boltons," Sansa said in exasperation. "But Roose Bolton is not to be trusted, and the Karstarks are still bitter. And no one likes that Jeor Mormont passed clan leadership onto Maege Mormont. Not to mention the other clans that are fighting each other for petty things, as they've done for hundreds of years. There's nothing to unite them but religion, and even that is a weak point. No one cares about the old gods. Everyone is converting to worshipping the Seven. You saw for yourself: Mother raised us on the ways of the new gods. We grew up worshipping in the Sept, not in the godswood. Only father did that."

"You don't think they'd fight for their old gods?"

"They would, if their gods were threatened, if their ability to keep the old gods was taken away," Sansa conceded. She bit into the rabbit and screwed up her features. Jon couldn't stop his laughter from coming out.

"Freedom tastes good, doesn't it?" he teased, and Sansa laughed in spite of herself, covering her mouth.

Soon, they had finished their meat, and the fire began to die as it burned through the little kindling they had. "We might as well sleep," Jon said heavily, turning away from her to needlessly organize his bow, his arrows, his dirk and sword. He heard her clear her throat.

"Right, yes," she stammered.

There was nothing to do but get through it.

"We'll have to—"

"I suppose—"

They each faltered and looked away.

"We'll share cloaks," Jon said, clearing his throat and clenching his fists, as he stalked to the little divot she had dug out. "If we keep the fire going, that should be enough warmth."

"Yes, makes sense," Sansa said, rising and brushing off her dress and cloak needlessly. "Should I—"

"—You lay first, I'll just...go behind you," Jon said, not looking at her, gesturing to the divot. "If you face into the earth, you'll be warmer. Take off your cloak, and we can put it on top of mine."

She shed her cloak. Her dress was hopelessly muddy underneath, utterly ruined. He realized she had a corset on underneath—how in the hell had she run in a corset? He thought of her panting and gasping and felt a fresh stab of guilt. He was an idiot, truly. He watched her awkwardly lay in the dirt and turn onto her side, her copper hair pooling in the dirt.

"Is this—"

"Aye, that's fine," Jon interrupted, and he shed his own cloak. He set his weapons off to the side, near where his head would be, and then fidgeted for a moment, pacing and turning, before he lay down behind her, a mere inch from her. He cast both cloaks over them, and had to wriggle forward some to get underneath the cloak completely. They both stiffened when his chest brushed against her back. Her hair tickled his face, and he pushed it away. "Are you—"

"—Yes, are you—"

"—Yes."

"Right. Well," Sansa began tremulously, "...sleep well, I suppose."

He laughed in spite of himself and watched her hair billow against his breath, revealing the soft skin of the nape of her neck for a flash, before it settled again.

"Sleep well," he said quietly.

* * *

The soldiers were singing, drunken and rowdy, as they ate supper. The inn had felt stifling, and the innkeeper, a fat woman with a shining, ruddy face, had stared at him with such open disgust that Jaime had been compelled to leave. Bronn, still clearly sensing his foul mood, had let him go outside alone, and Jaime was both annoyed and relieved.

The rain had let up, at long last, and the little garden on the side of the inn was quiet. The cool air was a blessing. His leg throbbed where Jon Snow had cut it, and his teeth ached. He'd been grinding them all day.

He paced for a bit, and heard crunching on the loose gravel path. He turned, and the innkeeper, the fat ugly cow, was staring at him. She too was clad in tartan.

"Is it some sort of northerner's holiday," he asked in greeting, gesturing to her tartan dress. "I've never seen so many people in tartan."

She swallowed, her jowls wobbling.

"It's the Stark tartan," she said now, raising her voice. "For Sansa Stark."

Jaime wished he were a drinking man. He felt that only alcohol could make this less shit, at this point. He smiled with all his teeth at the woman. _Don't make me sing the Rains of Castamere,_ he thought, watching her take in his smile. _I'm Tywin's son before I'm anything else._

"Ah, Sansa Stark. That's it. I thought I recognized it. A bit drab, isn't it? I don't think grey is most people's best colour," he remarked. Hatred gleamed in her eyes, and she blinked, tears streaking down her cheeks.

"This is for the Starks," she whispered, shutting the kitchen door.

A man came from the shadows, tall and impossibly broad, and clad in ugly, brutal-looking riding leathers and a poorly-sewn hood. He had an impressive sword sheathed at his hip. He pulled off the hood now, revealing a square jaw and mussed, sweaty brown hair. He had a foul purple and green bruise above his brow. It took Jaime a moment, but quite abruptly he realized who the man was.

"Dickon Tarly," he said in surprise. "I'd say you look well, but it would be a lie. Seven hells, did you lose a fight, man?"

Dickon approached him with a clenched jaw and angry eyes. The innkeeper had disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving them alone in the garden.

"You have no honor," he said in a low, shaking voice.

"So I've been told, by every man just before I cut his head off," Jaime retorted. "That doesn't bode well for you, I must say."

Dickon drew his sword, and just as fast, Jaime drew his own. "Are you _really_ going to fight me?" he asked in disbelief. "I've seen you fight, sweet boy, and I can't say I was terribly impressed."

Dickon swung his sword; he was too big and broad to be a good swordsman. He'd've been better with an axe, but you couldn't tell Randyll Tarly, more of a climber than ivy itself, something like that. Jaime easily blocked the blow, feeling torn between laughter and confusion. "What in the name of the Seven is this all about—"

"—Sansa Stark, that's what it's about," Dickon yelled, dropping his sword for a moment. "We all know what you did, the whole north knows—"

"—Then you should be thanking me, you stupid brat," Jaime shot back incredulously. How could anyone know what he had done? It had only been he, Sansa Stark, and the Targaryen boy in that grove. "If it weren't for my actions, that snake Littlefinger would be getting ready to—"

It happened fast. Dickon let out a yell and swung his sword, and Jaime saw the opening and, almost instinctively, went for it. There was a curious whistling past his ear, and then blinding pain in his right hand, halting his progress.

In a clatter of noise, it was done. His sword lay on the ground, and Dickon's blade cut a long gash in his shoulder; he had been too surprised to step back far enough in time to completely avoid it. An arrow, painted black, with blood red feathers poking from its end, was lodged firmly in his right hand.

Even Dickon seemed shocked.

"Wh-what?" he breathed, and both men turned to look to the right. A slender figure emerged from the shadows, pulling down his own hood, his bow still drawn. In the light, Jaime could see the man's face better, though he did not know him. Pale eyes studied him as a clever, sharp mouth curved in delight. "Ramsay, I said—"

"—Oh, come on, my lord, did you not hear what Lannister just said? It wasn't enough for him to befoul your lady; he's taken her from Baelish, too. Will you really let this man continue to stand?"

Jaime knelt to snatch his sword, but even he was not fast enough. Another arrow hit him, seemingly out of nowhere, in the thigh, precisely where Jon Snow had cut him, and Jaime fell back in shock and pain. "Are you a man, or a sweet southron boy?" was the last thing he heard the man say. Dickon Tarly stood over him, and grabbed him, and a hood was pulled over his eyes. He struggled, and then there was a sharp blow to the side of his head, and everything disappeared.

* * *

Sansa awoke at dawn's first light. Her whole body ached, and her stomach seemed to have folded it on itself from hunger. But there was something warm, and hard, pressed against her back.

It had taken hours to fall asleep. She had been self-conscious of every breath, every swallow, every urge to move, every growl of her stomach. She knew Jon hadn't fallen asleep for hours, either. They had simply lay there stiffly next to each other, not speaking, for hours. She didn't know when she had fallen asleep, but she knew it had been late.

Jon had not migrated much closer to her in his sleep, but she could feel his deep, even breathing tickling her neck.

She had never shared a bed with a man before.

She knew that men became hard in the morning—she had heard enough jokes about it—but her dress and his riding leathers proved enough separation that she couldn't tell. The curiosity flitted through her mind, then she felt guilty for it. She had imagined waking up next to Dickon so many times even during their brief engagement that it had become almost a comforting ritual, imagining waking up to his scent, his arm slung over her hip, holding her like she mattered.

She had never imagined anything like this.

Her hips ached from lying on the hard ground, and she longed to stretch her legs, but she held still, her whole body tensed.

Did he and ever Daenerys sleep together, after they...? It was hard to imagine it. _Oh, gods_ , and then she found herself turning red as her mind wandered to what it might be like— _oh, gods_. She was going to lose her mind. Most girls, she reasoned, lost their maidenhead so much sooner. She had passed her twentieth name day years ago, and still was a virgin. Most girls lost that particular innocence, one way or the other, by their seventeenth name day. Perhaps this was all just due to her remaining innocent for far too long. Her mind was doing strange things to her, making her think strange thoughts.

She did not even know if she really wanted to be bedded, beyond the satisfaction of having one great mystery solved. It seemed such a complicated, confusing, embarrassing affair. It would be best, she resolved, with someone gentle, and understanding; someone who could laugh at the awkwardness with you. Someone who would guide you without making you too conscious of what you didn't know.

And how could it even be fun? Everyone seemed to like it so much, and yet, to think through the mechanics of it all, she thought it was such a strange and embarrassing activity. None of it made any sense. It seemed so...messy, and complicated. Her mind kept trailing back to the image of Daenerys' neck, the bruise upon it, like a locked door, behind which contained something wonderful, if only she could find the key. Why, she wondered yet again, would anyone like having their neck bit? Why would anyone want to do it? Why could she not stop thinking about it?

She felt Jon shift, sighing in his sleep, his breath along her neck, and every hair along her body tingled with awareness. She knew he was waking up, and she both dreaded having to confront the fact that they had slept so close together and wished they could simply get it over with.

He was awake, now. She felt him shift away, and cold rushed against her back, and she reflexively curled in on herself. She waited a moment, and pretended to wake up, making a show of yawning. Jon had got to his feet and was scanning their surroundings. There was blood red patterned with pink in the east, beyond the black marks of trees, a riot of passionate colours. Everything else seemed grey and lonely.

She sat up and watched Jon look around, his lean body all rigid lines to brace against the cold. He'd left both cloaks over her.

"Good morning," she said into the wind. He looked over his shoulder but did not turn to face her. There were imprints on the right side of his face from sleep, and his hair was wilder than ever.

"Morning," he said stiffly. "As soon as you're ready, we should start moving again." He would not look at her, and his tone was harsh, gruff.

What had she done wrong? She felt ashamed, as though he could read her mind, could know her traitorous thoughts. Flushed and embarrassed, she got to her feet, and shed one of the cloaks.

"Here," she said, not meeting his eyes, as she held the cloak out to him. He took it without looking at her and strapped on his bow and quiver.

They walked in silence for a long time. Her shoes had not been made for trekking along the moors, and she was conscious of every rock, every twig, but she could not bring herself to speak of it. The corset made it harder to walk quickly, to match Jon's strides, but her pride disallowed her from speaking. She could not say why she felt like some sort of ill-behaved, unruly child; she did not know how things had so swiftly turned sour since the evening. She had thought they were growing closer; now, it felt as though all of that had been undone.

It wasn't raining today, at least. For hours they trekked, in complete silence, and she simmered in agony. What had she done? Had he decided she was too much trouble? Was he regretting taking her along? She didn't see his face for hours, only his stiff shoulders as he relentlessly beat on ahead of her.

There were no signs of civilization for miles. Once they passed a mill, but Jon would not let them stop.

Tears began to burn in her eyes. She felt ridiculous. If he had decided that he did not want to drag her with him, he ought to simply say so. Why was he torturing her like this? Perhaps she had done something wrong; she had never intended it, though. If he would only tell her, she might be able to solve it.

But all day they did not speak, and at long last, the sky grew pink with the threat of sunset. They'd have to set up camp again. There was a lump in her throat; she dreaded having to face him, having to interact. He'd have to go hunt again, and she would simply sit there, useless, with nothing to do and no way of helping. She watched him scan the countryside with eyes narrowed.

"There's a stream," he said suddenly. "We should be near the Wolfswood."

"Oh," she said tentatively. "Is that...?"

"We've gone too far north," Jon explained unhappily, still not looking at her. He led them to the stream, whose banks were dotted with trees. Beyond the stream, flaking birches were tangled with pink thorny vines, the same pink as the sky.

She longed to be useful, to be worthwhile, so she tried scanning the area for a good place to camp, but nothing like their little ridge stood out to her, and besides, she didn't even know what made a good campsite or not, beyond having shelter. The lump in her throat grew.

"I don't know what would make a good place to camp," she confessed, trying to keep her voice even. Jon paused at the stream, looking up against the current, scowling.

"There's no good place to camp. We should have been there by now," he said shortly. "We'll stay here; at least there should be some game. Just stay there. I'll be back." And he leapt over the stream at a narrow place, and disappeared into the birch trees, leaving Sansa standing there helplessly on the bank.

She would not cry. She would not. Bracing herself, she hunted along the bank for rocks. He had seemed to like the camp fire she had built last night; she'd try that again.

She finished relatively quickly, for as it hadn't rained, there was far more kindling this time. She tried to mimic how he had started the fire last night, but she couldn't get it to work, and tears blurred her vision. She was so, so hungry, and so tired, and so thirsty, and she did not know what she had done wrong. A wild thought, that this was no different than King's Landing, struck her. Here she was again, all at odds no matter what she did, unable to fix it, unable to know what it was she had done. Waiting to find out, desperately trying to make amends for crimes she did not know she had committed, desperately trying to make amends for nothing more than simply existing as she was. Furiously she tried harder to start the fire, but she got nothing, not even sparks.

She was in agony, so she desperately sought something to soothe her. Tall reeds grew around the stream, and she absently tore at them in fistfuls, and began knotting them together, weaving them in and out. They were soft and pliant, and knotted well together. Her heart slowed and her eyes stopped burning as she worked methodically.

* * *

Jon missed two shots, and lost an arrow in a tree. Furiously he at last caught one rabbit, but it had taken nearly an hour, and it was already dark by the time he walked back to where he had left Sansa.

She had built a campsite again, though no fire was going. He saw her kneeling by the stream's edge, doing something with her hands, but it was too dark to see what. Jon stopped in his tracks, still shielded by the birch trees, and drew in a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

When he got to the campsite, she did not look up. She was wrapped tightly in her cloak, and a net of reeds was growing beneath her pale, chapped hands. The knotwork was precise, intricate.

"I only got one rabbit," he confessed. She still did not look up.

"Well, it is winter," she conceded in a low voice. "I...couldn't get a fire started."

He could see the scratches on the rocks where she had tried, and he felt another burst of rage. He turned away from her, and knelt before the campsite.

"You need the right type of rock."

"Oh. I didn't know."

Of course she didn't know. Jon started the fire with the flint he'd kept from last night, and they watched the kindling she had placed catch flame. She had built a spit, too, and he ground his teeth as he set it up, swearing under his breath when he pulled the wood too hard and the pointed end dug into his palm. In silence, he skinned the rabbit, while she continued to weave.

And then, out of nowhere: "What did I do?"

Her voice was thick, and Jon's gaze shot up. Her eyes were wet in the firelight.

"W-what?" he stammered. Sansa blinked and shot to her feet, unexpectedly.

"Y-you've been silent all day," she scoffed. "I clearly did something, but I can't figure out what it is, so just tell me!"

He could only stare at her, dumbfounded.

"What?"

"You're mad at me, and I don't know why!"

He might as well have been doused with cold water, and a creeping shame crept up his spine. He had been sour and silent all day, but he'd not thought she'd noticed. "I cannot bear it, alright? I cannot bear not knowing why you're upset with me. I know I'm difficult to travel with, and I don't know how to hunt or start fires—"

"—I'm not upset with you," Jon interrupted, getting to his feet. Sansa stared at him.

"Then why have you acted like such a—such a—" she cast around helplessly, as though she could not come up with a word to accurately describe him, "—a brat!" she finally settled on, her shoulders rising and falling, chest heaving. "I didn't ask you to take me along. I'm not making you. If you don't want—"

"—You did nothing," he said shortly, heat rising to his cheeks. "Just—just ignore it," he insisted, turning and stalking away.

"Ignore it?" she scoffed in disbelief from behind him. "Ignore it?"

"It has got nothing to do with you," he snapped.

Well, that was a lie. It was hardly her fault, though. Jon rubbed the back of his neck. He turned around, almost afraid to look at her. Her eyes were red, her chest heaving. "I...am sorry," he tried this time. "What—what's that you're making?"

"You didn't speak the entire day, and you've obviously been in a foul mood," she insisted, tossing aside the net she had been making, ignoring his admittedly pathetic attempt to sidestep the problem. "You say it's not me, but how can I possibly believe you? Your mood changed overnight, and it's just us here. The only possible cause is me. Can you just—can you just tell me what I did? Don't—don't _lie_ ," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "Whatever it is I've done—" she cut off abruptly and turned away.

Jon stood frozen, holding the half-skinned rabbit.

"Sansa," he said more gently, "I'm sorry. I really am. I—" he worked his jaw furiously. He had never been good at this sort of thing. "—I realized this morning how...precarious our situation is. And I don't know what to do. I don't even know if we're going in the right direction."

She was still turned away from him, arms folded tightly over her chest. "We don't have water, and there's almost nothing to hunt here, and every house or dwelling we see, I wonder if they're working for the Crown and will kill us on sight."

It was partly the truth, though not all of it. He swallowed. "I've led you into the wilderness, and ...I can't even promise I can keep you alive."

"You are an idiot," she said tightly, still not turning to look at him. Her shoulders shook slightly. His anger flared.

"I am an idiot," he agreed furiously. "You are right."

He wanted to stalk off, to get away from her, but he was still holding the bleeding, half-skinned rabbit, and he was so hungry he couldn't see straight. Seething with an anger he secretly knew was unreasonable, he sat down and skinned the rabbit so violently that he lost half the meat, swearing under his breath the whole time. Sansa kept her back to him, and after a while, sat down and resumed toying with her net. He kept waiting for her to speak, but she wouldn't.

Well, if he was such a bloody idiot, then he wouldn't bother her with his idiotic conversation. His hands slowed as he held the meat. He did not want to have to speak, to tell her that he was going to cook the meat, to offer her share to her, but he could not let her be hungry, either. He speared the meat on the spit over the fire, furious at how quickly the meat cooked. "The food's...almost ready," he finally said rather lamely. He saw her wipe at her face discretely, and he cleared his throat. "Um, I don't know if you heard me—"

"I heard," she said quietly.

The silence was awful, deafening and claustrophobic. He was at fault, he knew, but it was utterly unfair. He had done nothing wrong, except not make conversation. Was it such a crime to be silent? Why in seven hells was she weeping over this? He chanced another glance, but she was still faced away from him, her fingers clutching the net far too tightly. Words were stuck in his throat.

She had been kind to him, had shown him gentleness, when he had been hurting.

He moved the spit out of the fire's path and got to his feet, and walked to sit beside her. He dropped down next to her, not looking at her face.

"Davos tried to teach me knots, but I didn't listen," he admitted, picking up a corner of the quickly-growing net. He heard her let out a shuddering breath.

"It-it's not difficult," she said. "You just need to make sure you're keeping the right tension. It's a bit like making lace."

"I am well-known for my lace," he said wryly, and he heard her laugh, then stifle it quickly. She swallowed, and reached out, hands guiding his.

"Like this," she said, twisting his hand. He was grateful they were sitting away from the fire, in the dark, so that she could not see his face. "Over and under and around..."

He did as instructed, and realized he had inadvertently made a slipknot. He watched as she patiently undid the knot, her nimble fingers never breaking the reed, fragile as it was.

"Let me try again," he said, and he took the reeds from her. His fingers were clumsy from the cold, and it took him a few attempts, but he finally did the right knot. "It's a bit like a fishing net," he said as he took the next two reeds to knot.

"I'm worried the gaps are too big, though." She snapped another reed from the pile next to her, threading it in effortlessly among the others. Jon tested the gap with his hand.

"Depends on the kind of fish. Might be too big for the fish in this stream, but it would be good for most whitefish." He finished another knot, but it was unruly and messy compared to hers. "Why are you making it?"

"I don't know what else to do," she admitted. "I thought...well, I don't really know what I thought." Her hands stilled. "I'm sorry." Neither looked at the other. "I just...get upset if I think someone's angry with me."

He thought again of the horror on her face when Lannister had told her she would have to return to King's Landing. It was a horror that had stilled both men's swords, had made them both pause.

"You have nothing to be sorry for." He bit his lip, tying another knot. There were so many things he should have said, should have asked, but the words were lodged in his throat. Why was it so difficult?

After a time, they paused to observe their work. A long net stretched between them. Jon got to his feet, holding it up in surprise, and tugged on it to test its strength. Its weight was unexpected. "It feels like a real net," he remarked, shaking it slightly. Sansa stood back, looking almost shy, her arms folded over her chest.

"Not like a make-believe one?" she teased, her voice wavering a bit, and he couldn't help but laugh.

They lay it down next to the campfire, and sat on it together, as Jon moved the meat back over the fire to warm it again. They ate in silence, and then sat for a long time, watching the flames wither in the wind, with no kindling to keep it going. "We'll get there tomorrow," Sansa said quietly into the dark night.

"Aye," he replied softly.

Wordlessly they got up, after the last flame died, and Jon smoothed the net out once more. It would not stretch his full height, but long enough if they were curled up on it. Sansa shed his cloak, and he looked away hastily as he took it from her. _I am a fool_ , he thought once more.

She lay down on the net, facing the campfire, and after a moment, he lay down behind her, and pulled both cloaks over them. "It's almost like a bed," he tried after a long moment.

"A make-believe one," Sansa said wryly, and for a moment they were laughing again, and then it died down once more.

His blood was singing in his veins. He clenched his fists. _I am a fool, I am a fool, I am a fool._


	8. Chapter 8

There was probably nothing more disorienting than waking up with a hood over your face.

Jaime came to with a gasp and a horrific realization that he was about to slide off something, and he jolted to stop, but someone pinned him in place. Horseback, he was on horseback, but why? He struggled against the hand pinning him in place frantically.

"Settle down, General Lannister; you've a long journey ahead of you," came a sly voice in his ear.

His hands were bound behind his back, and every stride of the horse made what was evidently a bad wound in his right hand throb. There was a wound on his leg, too, that was bothered with every stride and bounce. "You were not as hard to take down as I would have thought, I must admit."

It all came rushing back. Dickon Tarly. The impish man with the arrows. The fat innkeeper, dressed in the Stark tartan. _For Sansa Stark_ , she had said, before leaving him with these thuggish fools. Jaime swore he would never help Sansa Stark again, if possible. It was already proving to have been a terrible decision, and he could not see things improving very soon.

"Can anyone explain _why_ I'm being kidnapped?" he asked through clenched teeth. There was wetness on his hands; his wound had reopened and was bleeding. He tried to wiggle the fingers of his right hand but they only throbbed and disobeyed him. He swayed and lurched, gasping.

 _No need to panic yet,_ he told himself. The muscles were in shock, was all; he'd get the feeling back in his fingers shortly, he was sure of it. It was probably just the angle, and the fact that he'd been tied for so long, and bleeding so much.

"You have the gall to pretend you don't know," seethed another voice, further away. Jaime rolled his eyes. That was Dickon Tarly, of course. He remembered being forced to converse with him at some masquerade back in King's Landing mere weeks ago...the idiot had not spoken so much as gawked at Sansa Stark gracelessly over his shoulder. Then his insufferable, pompous father had joined them, and while at first it had been amusing to see Randyll Tarly drunk-it was a bit like seeing a goat do magic tricks-it had grown tiresome quickly, not to mention what had happened _after_ the masquerade.

"I'm no actor, brat; if I were pretending, you'd be able to tell, I promise," he sneered, and left Dickon in the silence to puzzle that one out.

"You know what you did to Sansa Stark," Dickon insisted over the wind.

"Yes, I know what I did, but I don't see how in seven hells you could possibly know," Jaime shot back.

"Everyone knows. The whole north knows what you've done."

"Shouldn't they be thanking me, then?"

"That's enough talking," Dickon Tarly said. Jaime rolled his eyes. _Oh, big man in charge_ , he thought, but all the same, he decided to shut up. Dickon Tarly was no more talented of a conversationalist on horseback than he was at a masquerade, as it turned out. Why waste his breath?

He dearly hoped that the Stark girl appreciated her freedom, because the Seven knew he was paying for it. Would he not have let her go, had he known he'd be attacked by Dickon Tarly and his pale-eyed friend?

He did not know the answer. He kept seeing her drop to the ground in horror, kept remembering the scared little girl who had once, a long time ago, sobbed into his shirt, even as he had tried to pull away from her. He kept remembering Cersei's gaze flicking over Sansa so many times, her lovely green eyes taking in the way that men were starting to look at Sansa the way they had once looked at Cersei.

After hours of riding in the rain, Jaime was dizzy from pain, slumped forward in the saddle, but he heard the timbre of the horses' strides change: they were on stone now. He sat up despite the pain.

"Are we at Winterfell?" he wondered aloud, straining to remember what Winterfell had looked like. That _was_ where Tarly lived now, wasn't it? The Seven knew why they would move from the golden fields of the Reach to Winterfell, but he had never given a damn about others' political machinations, so long as they did not interfere with his life in any way.

"No, my dear General," said Tarly's friend, his voice far too close for Jaime's liking. "Welcome to my humble abode."

"I'm sure it's absolutely lovely; however, as I cannot see, I can hardly give a believable compliment," Jaime said dryly, as the horse came to a stop. There was a sharp blow and he was pushed off the horse, and for one helpless moment he thought he might simply drop to the ground-and likely break his neck-but rough hands caught him, not gently.

"Careful, careful," sang the friend. Another pair of hands righted him.

"What exactly is the purpose of this little venture?" Jaime wondered aloud as he was prodded sharply in the back and forced to move forward.

"We're going to have a little chat is all."

He was led inside; somehow, it was colder and damper inside than out. The hood was ripped off, and Jaime gasped, relieved to breathe freely. It was clearly some sort of northern dump that passed for an estate in these parts. Stone walls, stone floors, and almost no light. "Down we go." The impish man prodded him once more in the back, in the direction of stone steps that led into darkness.

They were in the dungeons now. Jaime was pushed to the corner of the dungeon, where there was a large X-shaped wooden structure, decorated with chains. _Lovely._ Was he about to be flayed?

"You are aware that now that I've seen your faces, you will be hanged when all this is done, correct?" he asked dryly, as he was pushed to the wooden structure and chained round his waist.

"And what of your crimes against Sansa Stark?" Dickon asked hotly, watching as his friend—clearly the leader of this dynamic duo—tied Jaime in place with a length of moulding rope. He dithered a moment, looking uncomfortable. Evidently he had never kidnapped and tortured anyone before; Jaime could have told him that it wasn't meant to go quite like this.

"I have no crimes against Sansa Stark, you blithering idiot."

"You raped her—"

"—No, I did not."

"Can you prove it?" Dickon demanded. Jaime rolled his eyes.

"No, you've got me there. I have no way of proving that I never touched Sansa Stark, save for Lady Stark's own word." He thought of her being pulled away by Jon Snow. He was unlikely to get much help from her on this front; by now they would be on their way to Essos, if the Targaryen brat had any sense (though given his heritage, Jaime would guess that he did not). "Where on earth did you get this ridiculous notion?"

"Everyone knows, General Lannister," the friend interrupted, swinging a chain almost playfully in his hands. Jaime leaned forward, testing his bond. The rope was old, but too strong, given his current position and the weakness in his hands. He'd never be able to untie himself, either; the knot was in front. His hands were bound by rope and he could feel the knot tantalizingly close to his fingers, but his right hand was simply too weak. "Everyone has been talking in the north about what you've done to her."

If he told them he had intentionally let the Stark girl go, he would be framing himself. Word would get out, would spread, and Littlefinger would have him. But what could Littlefinger possibly do to him? Not to mention Dickon might not be any kinder about him having freed Sansa Stark…thus giving her directly to the Targaryens.

"My father knows, too," Dickon said now, stepping closer. "You must have blackmailed him into keeping your foul behavior to himself—"

Jaime burst out laughing. Oh, this was too good. The universe was truly a sarcastic bitch sometimes. Dickon's eyes widened in horror. "You laugh about blackmail?"

"No, I laugh because it's much the other way round, I assure you, boy," he said, breathless with laughter. "I would never have said anything about your father's habits—I don't judge any man for what he prefers behind closed doors—but as it's come to this…Oh, the irony is truly too good."

"Spit it out," Dickon snapped, his face flushing, fists clenching.

And there he saw his opportunity. Jaime flashed a grin at Dickon.

"Oh, I shouldn't," he said innocently. "It would be unkind. I suppose everyone must already know—rumors do spread, as you well know—but they would never be from my lips."

"I have you here, tied and imprisoned. You will do what I say," Dickon said furiously. "What is this secret about my father?"

"See, that's just the thing," Jaime said, wincing. "As the general of the royal army, I've worked quite hard at learning to keep secrets under duress."

This was a dangerous—and probably utterly stupid—game he was playing. Tyrion would have been able to come up with something clever. Cersei would have been able to seduce them. As it was, without a sword or dirk or gun, Jaime had nothing but the sheer luck of the gods to go on.

Well, it had got him this far. "So you may as well begin your torture," he continued, nodding to the chains in the other man's hands, "because you clearly believe I've raped your sweet former betrothed, and I'll never spill your father's secret."

"What shall we do, my lord?" The other man asked, in a ridiculously obsequious tone. Dickon looked like he was trying very hard to think; Jaime almost congratulated him on clearly expending such effort.

"…We will let him sweat overnight. Perhaps he'll be more talkative in the morning," Dickon finally said.

"You are in charge," the friend said with a sigh, and he hung his chains on a nail poking out between the wet stones. Dickon lingered, looking uncertain, but then clenched his fists and turned away.

And thus they left Jaime there, with nothing but his thoughts and the pain in his right hand, in the darkness.

* * *

Jon woke first, to icy rain filtering through the branches above them, with his arm curled in between his chest and Sansa's back, and their legs tangled. For a moment he lay there, wishing he had actually kept the old gods, really kept them, so he could pray without feeling like a hypocrite.

The skies were murky, suggesting another day of rain, another day of wandering through the Barrowlands, with little to guide his way, another day of gnawing hunger and all-consuming thirst... And what if Dany and the others had never made it?

It was a distinct possibility, hovering like a spectre over every thought, every strategy. Lannister might have released them, but Jon had no illusions about what the general or his army might do if they encountered Dany.

What if Dany was dead?

The possibility was too big, too bilious, to even consider, so Jon shunned it, even as it lingered. Everything would change; everything he had built his life around would be ripped away. He would have nothing of his life left, and would have to start over, build from the ground up.

He would be, he realized, in exactly the same situation as Sansa was now.

He gingerly moved away from Sansa, so as not to wake her just yet, and went to carefully tuck both cloaks back around her. Leaning over her, he tucked the cloaks around her shoulder, and—just his luck—at that moment she stirred.

"Sorry, I was just putting the cloak back on you," he whispered, wondering why he was whispering. Sansa mumbled something, her hair in her face, and before he could stop himself, he brushed it away, then sharply withdrew his hand.

"S'raining," she murmured sleepily, and nuzzled into the fabric of the cloak. Jon edged back from her and got to his feet, squinting as the rain hit his cheeks. It began to fall harder, creating a halo of blurred light around everything. It made it harder to see, harder to tell which direction was west. "Jon?" A sleepy voice pulled him from his dark thoughts. Sansa sat up, blinking, clutching both cloaks tightly around her. "Should we start w-walking?" she asked, breaking into a yawn mid-sentence.

Both still half-asleep, they cleared their campsite. Jon picked up the net and folded it when Sansa wasn't looking—she had insisted they leave it, that it was rubbish—and they set off into the gloomy day.

"Shouldn't we be near Torrhen's Square?" Sansa remarked. The land seemed flatter here, Jon had noticed it too. They might be near water, which would mean they ought to be near Torrhen's Square.

Why didn't he feel relieved?

He knelt in the dirt and pulled up some grass. Sandy soil.

"I think we are," he said, rising out of his crouch and brushing his hands off. "We're supposed to go to a pub there and ask for Arstan Whitebeard." Sansa snorted. "What?" Jon asked indignantly.

"Nothing, nothing," she said innocently. They resumed walking. "Do you think ...the others made it?"

"The plan was that Davos would reconvene with them with horses, but I don't know if he made it." His belly lurched at the thought. He had always liked Davos best of them all. "If they weren't on horseback, they won't be traveling swift. Tyrion's slow, and with a group, it's harder to move fast."

"What about Missandei, and Daario, and Grey Worm?"

"Missandei will have gone with Dany and Daario. It was Grey Worm's task to retaliate."

Grey Worm was probably dead. Dead and gone, along with most of their Unsullied and Dothraki force. Between the disease that had felled them in Gulltown and General Lannister's garrison, they had been decimated.

Within an hour, the shape of Torrhen's Square emerged in the mist. It was an old castle that had been turned into a little town, due to its positioning in the middle of so many key destinations. As they approached, Jon turned to Sansa, stopping them on the road.

They were both filthy, faces smudged with dirt and shadowed from hunger and exhaustion. Sansa's hair was not the lacquered copper it had been when he had kidnapped her, but rather a wild mess, with leaves and twigs poking from it.

"...I was going to say we ought to take care to disguise you, but I don't think anyone will recognize you," he observed with a sly grin.

"Oh, I can't even bear to think of how I must look," Sansa replied, self-consciously combing at her hair.

"You don't look like Sansa Stark, and right now that is a good thing," Jon said, as they resumed walking.

The public house in question was dark even in the midday light, and had only a few patrons lingering by the bar. An older gentleman with a remarkably silky white beard was working behind the bar, and Sansa recognized him at once. Barristan Selmy, though well into his sixties, was as lean and fit as any man in his prime, and even the loose, dingy-coloured vest, shirt, and apron he wore could not quite hide it. His dark eyes flicked to them, so briefly, and she saw his brows arch in recognition before he turned away to speak to one of the patrons.

All eyes were on them—on her, in particular—and Sansa felt Jon stand far closer to her than necessary, his hand at her back as he led her to the bar.

"We need a room for the night. We're on our way to Bear Island—I was told to ask for Arstan Whitebeard," Jon said, retrieving a small leather pouch of coins from his belt. She would never have been able to tell that he knew Barristan, or that Barristan knew him, and the duplicitous nature of it disturbed her. She would not have guessed that Jon might be good at this, even if she had accused him of being 'false coin' mere days ago.

"Aye, that's me. Third room on your right. It's not been cleaned," Barristan said, barely looking at them, as he passed Jon a tarnished key from his pocket. "Let's see...it'll be..." Barristan narrowed his eyes in thought, "...five gold dragons upfront, though I'll expect more later, if you want a hot meal."

"How much more?" Jon asked, looking annoyed, as he passed five gold dragons to Barristan. "This is hardly King's Landing."

"At least three, depends on how much you eat," Barristan shot back. "Rooms are up those stairs." His eyes lingered on Sansa. He recognized her, knew who she was, she could see a glimmer of it. "Pretty wife you got there. Looks a bit ladylike for the likes of you," he added meaningfully, looking at Jon, who—whether it was acting or true embarrassment, she could not say—actually flushed.

"Keep your eyes and hands to yourself," he said coolly, and he took Sansa's hand and pulled her to the staircase in the corner.

Atop the stairs it was almost too dark to see; the hallway was cramped and smelled of wet wood.

"Did that mean five people-" she began, but Jon looked over his shoulder and pulled a face at her. He still had her hand clasped in his, and was counting the doors with the other. When they got to the third room on the right side of the hall, he dropped her hand and unlocked the door.

The room was tiny, with a soot-covered hearth and a lumpy-looking bed, but notably, the room was extremely overcrowded.

Daenerys was sitting on the bed with Missandei, Tyrion was in the only armchair, balancing a cup of wine on his leg, and Jorah and Daario were sitting before the fire, both men tending to their rifles.

"Took you long enough. I assume you did a little sight-seeing on your way," Tyrion greeted, as they entered and Jon locked the door behind them. Sansa felt a flash of self-consciousness and lingered at the edge of the room. They were all looking at her. "Good of you to bring our valuables, too," he added, his eyes alighting on Sansa, "though with the state she's in, Tarly may just kill us anyway. I have no idea how we'll get to-"

"-Tarly sold her," Jon interrupted, shedding his cloak and systematically shedding his weapons as well, dropping them onto a low writing desk. "To Baelish. Half the point of the raid was to get her."

"The other half being to execute me," Daenerys said.

"A shame; my brother is not accustomed to such total failure," Tyrion drawled, his gaze still fixed on Sansa. "Though while I am infinitely more certain that Littlefinger has three thousand gold dragons available, I am also infinitely more certain we will not be able to get our hands on it. Why on earth did you bring her?"

Sansa held her breath, and looked at Jon. All eyes were on him as he shifted uncomfortably and drew in a deep breath, but a knock at the door saved him from having to answer. Barristan appeared with a few trays of food, and Jon took them from him to help him in the door.

"Oh, thank every god there has ever been," Daario breathed at the sight of food, shooting to his feet immediately.

"The Mormonts and Rickard Karstark should be arriving soon," he said, and no one looked surprised by this. This was far more organization and involvement than Sansa had initially thought. _These were the original five gold dragons, then, and Barristan was telling Jon that three more would arrive._ "Jon, good to see you," he said, squeezing Jon's arm. He turned to Sansa and bowed. "Lady Stark. It's been quite some time."

"Ser Barristan, yes, it has," Sansa replied. He had received the honorary knighthood title back in King Aerys' day.

"Lady Stark _was_ our hostage, but now that she is no longer marrying Dickon Tarly, we don't quite know what she is," Tyrion explained. "I suppose the last time you saw her, Selmy, she was betrothed to Joffrey."

"We both need food and water, and a bath if not a change of clothes," Jon said, before Tyrion could continue. "We've been walking for days and barely ate."

"Should have taken a horse or two, like we planned," Jorah said meaningfully, his gaze on Sansa.

"Jorah, leave it be," Daenerys said sharply. "Missandei can help Lady Stark with her bath, if we can get hot water."

Missandei looked ghostly, and she dully rose from the bed and she and Sansa followed Barristan out into the hall. It had been a dismissal, clearly. Barristan dropped his warm demeanor towards her the instant they were in the hall.

"You can use this room for your bath; I'll bring up some hot water," Barristan said brusquely, showing them into another cramped room, nearly identical to the one before it. Sansa went behind the dressing screen and began to shed her clothing. She needed Missandei's help with her corset. Twigs and leaves fluttered to the ground as she undressed.

"I'm almost afraid to look at myself," Sansa remarked lightly, as Missandei helped her out of the dress. There was a knock at the door; Barristan had brought a tub of hot water. Sansa shivered, naked, behind the screen, until he had left. "When did everyone arrive?" she tried again, when Missandei said nothing.

"The evening of the raid, Lady Stark," she replied, helping Sansa into the tub. Sansa did her best to submerge herself, but the tub was small, and the water was not hot. When she emerged, she began the task of detangling her long hair, which was filthy and matted at the nape of her neck. Without speaking, Missandei sat beside the tub and began to help her with patient, nimble hands.

"Has Ser Barristan been waiting here at this pub the whole time?"

"I'm afraid I cannot give you any information, Lady Stark."

The girl was clearly numb with grief or shock, so Sansa stopped trying to talk. She knew that state all too well; it was kinder to simply leave her alone. She wondered if Missandei had had some sort of relationship with one of Daenerys' men who had stayed behind in the raid.

While Missandei untangled her hair, Sansa scrubbed at her skin. Her feet were covered in blisters and her hands were raw and chapped, and the water that came away from her skin was murky. She had never been so filthy in her life, not even as a child. _Freedom,_ she thought, watching the water grow ever darker.

* * *

"Lady Stark was worth three thousand gold dragons to us. I was not about to just leave her, especially as we've now lost most of our men, horses, and guns," Jon said hotly.

"She was worth fifteen hundred gold dragons, actually, as Princess Daenerys had lowered the terms of the agreement," Tyrion corrected. "But I do see your logic. Though how did you come to learn that Baelish had bought her?"

Jon had not yet explained his encounter with General Lannister. Everyone was staring at him, hard. He licked his dry lips; he needed water, and he needed food, and he needed to sit down.

"We were tracked down by the general," Jon admitted. "He told us that Baelish had bought San—Lady Stark," he corrected hastily. Daario's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing. "He ...let us go."

There was a sharp collective gasp; even Tyrion seemed floored.

"He what?"

A knock at the door saved him once more. He could not say why he was so reluctant to explain his encounter with General Lannister, but he was glad for any delay. Barristan appeared, and opened the door wider.

The Mormonts and Rickard Karstark had arrived.

* * *

There was nothing to be done about the filthy dress; there were no other clothes available. She did her best with her appearance. Missandei helped her to pull her hair back and pin it up, and at least she was clean now.

Missandei led her back to the room where the others were. There were more voices now—had the Mormonts already arrived? With a deep breath, Sansa entered.

Jon was standing in front of the fireplace, and Tyrion had been exiled from the armchair. A tall woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a very strong jaw, clad in fine riding leathers and furs, was seated there now, one leg crossed over the other, and a heavy-set man with sparse white fluffy hair stood beside her chair, and a barrel-chested man with a wild grey beard was pacing by the windows. They all went sheet white at the sight of Sansa.

"Catelyn's daughter," the woman deduced immediately. It had to be Maege Mormont.

"We're seeing too many ghosts today," the heavy-set man beside her said with a gruff chuckle. "First Ned Stark and now Catelyn." She thought it was Jeor Mormont, but she couldn't be certain.

"He looks more like Lyanna, I tell you," Maege insisted stubbornly. "The mouth is all Lyanna." Jon turned around in surprise, and she offered him a wry smile. "I named my daughter after your mother. I cared for her deeply." She rose to her feet and went to Sansa. "You wouldn't remember me, but I remember you as a child." She placed her hands on Sansa's shoulders, looking her over.

"Of course I remember you, Lady Mormont," Sansa replied.

"You don't seem terribly surprised to find Lady Stark with us," Tyrion noted, pushing himself off the end of the bed. Jeor snorted.

"I was about to ask where she was just now. There are rumors flying up and down the country about Lady Stark. Married, unmarried, killed, kidnapped, raped…the last reliable information we had was that she was with you."

"Raped?" Daenerys looked furious. "Surely we are not thought so little of."

"Not the Targaryens. General Lannister's gone missing. There are all sorts of rumors, that he raped Lady Stark," Maege said. Sansa drew in a sharp breath.

"Jaime would never," she blurted immediately. All eyes were on her now.

"Indeed. That does not sound like my brother," Tyrion agreed immediately.

"He let us go," Jon added. "I don't know why. But he told us that Sansa had been sold to Lord Baelish. She's not engaged to Tarly any longer."

"We know she's engaged to Baelish; his men are already roaming the north, hunting for her," Jeor said. "I would not count on a ransom from him."

"Indeed, we will need to return her—" Tyrion began heavily, but Sansa could not contain herself.

"I can't go back to King's Landing," she interrupted, her voice tight. "I'll do anything but go back there. I can't marry Petyr Baelish. I cannot return to King's Landing."

"His men are crawling all over the north, looking for you," Maege said. "Child, I understand you don't want to return to King's Landing. But you've been there for so long, been among the Lannisters for so long. You must understand it would be difficult for us to trust your intentions. And to have his men hunting you puts the Princess Daenerys in danger."

"You would rather be a prisoner of Princess Daenerys?" Rickard Karstark asked now. "You were well-kept by the Lannisters. This is no place for you."

So this was the loyalty of the clans that had sworn fealty to her father. Sansa was hardly surprised—it was not as though they had come to save her, when she was trapped in King's Landing. It was not as though they had ever tried to avenge her father, mother, brothers, or sister.

"As much as I do understand the horror of my own family, you must see sense, Lady Stark," Tyrion said wryly. "We took you for the ransom you would net us. Now that that is no longer the case, we cannot just keep you. You are our enemy; you have never shown any signs of even quiet allegiance to Princess Daenerys."

Sansa wanted to scream. She let out a callous, caustic laugh.

"I was a prisoner in King's Landing for over ten years," she began, her hands shaking, so she fisted them. "I was beaten and humiliated on a daily basis by Joffrey and the Lannisters. They executed everyone I loved, and then made me look at their heads each day, to see how much they had decayed. They—they _sold me_ between each other, like I was a—a broodmare, or a piece of land. I was alone in King's Landing for years, with no one to help me, no one to save me. I have no love for King Joffrey or the Lannisters. I wish them all dead, or worse."

Her eyes burned, and she looked to Daenerys. "I have no love for you, Princess Daenerys, that is true. I've spent my life hearing jokes and japes about you. But I hate the Lannisters more, and I hate King's Landing. They destroyed my family before my eyes, and then tried to destroy me too. I don't care who ends their reign, so long as it ends, and I would happily do everything in my power to help you accomplish that." Her voice was growing stronger. "And you need me. I know King's Landing, and the intent of the Crown, better than any of you. People talked in front of me, said all kinds of things." She looked to Maege, Jeor, and Karstark. "For example, Roose Bolton will betray any alliance he forms with you; he works directly with the Crown, and the Crown's gold fills the coffers of the Dreadfort. He may tell you he intends on acting as a spy for the north's cause, but you should not believe him." Maege paled; in contrast, Karstark purpled. "And I know the north, too. My father was once Warden of the North, and I am the blood of Winterfell."

"But if Baelish's men are hunting you, it will create much more trouble for us, my lady," Daario said now. "So long as you remain marriageable, we will forever be watching our backs for Baelish's men. I do not know the man but I know the name, and the reputation. It is a lot to risk for a few inside secrets."

The silence was ringing. And then…

"What if she were no longer marriageable?" Jon asked suddenly. His voice was quiet. "Sa—Lady Stark is right. We do need her. And isn't this exactly what you fight for, Dany?" He looked to Daenerys now. "You once told me you wanted to create a world where no one could ever be bought or sold. Have you changed?"

Sansa saw Dany swallow, her eyes never leaving Jon's.

"Lady Stark will be marriageable for ten years. No matter what we could do to somehow soil her reputation, Baelish will marry her—"

"Not if she's already married." Jon was not looking at her. She could not seem to draw in a breath. No one could. Jon bit his lip, then spoke. "Daario is Tyroshi. Jorah is in exile. Tyrion is supposedly dead. None of them could marry her. But I could."

"You're the son of a traitor to the realm," Tyrion pointed out, but he was rubbing his chin thoughtfully, his mismatched eyes narrowed.

"But I still belong to Westeros. And if she were married in a Sept to a Targaryen—"

"—It would be completely legal, completely binding, and would mean utter ruin for her marriageability," Tyrion finished for him. Maege suddenly got to her feet, her eyes bright.

"It would unite the North to your cause," she breathed. "I did not think of it, but now it seems so obvious. Look at you two, you are Ned and Cat come back to us. What greater endorsement for a Targaryen restoration than marrying the blood of Winterfell to a Targaryen?" She turned to Sansa now. "Of course, it is your choice, child, but it might be the only way you can stay out of King's Landing."

Sansa blinked rapidly, and looked to Jon. He finally was looking at her, and he seemed to be edged in fiery gold by the firelight.

"It would be marriage in name only," he told her, stepping forward. "We would marry, but you could live however you would want. And then, someday, should you meet someone, after…everything…we would annul it," he promised.

"We would need to do it soon," Jeor said. "And publicly."

"If we go to Winter Town and have it in a Sept there," Tyrion began, pacing, "and we have a wedding feast at one of the inns there, and make the bedding public—"

"—No—" Sansa and Jon said at once, not looking at each other. Tyrion rolled his eyes.

"Fine, then at least an extremely loud bedding during the wedding feast, with proof of consummation, then we'd have dozens of witnesses."

"Witnesses, and therefore people becoming devoted to the cause," Maege added. "When they see Sansa Stark come out of the Sept in the Stark tartan, bound to a Targaryen, how could they not?"

"Jon is not marriageable," Daenerys said loudly.

"Is it more important to you that we uphold vows that you made up when you were fourteen, or that you protect innocents?" Jon countered furiously.

"Lady Stark will hardly be innocent after Snow beds her," Daario snarked, and Maege shot him a warning look. Jon and Daenerys were facing each other, their gazes locked in such intimacy that Sansa felt she had intruded on something.

"You took the vows of a Bloodrider," Daenerys said into the ringing silence. "I did not make up those vows. You vowed to give your life to my cause. Marriage makes honoring that vow, to the letter, impossible."

"I vowed to stand behind a leader who wanted to change the world. I vowed to give my life for someone who would not resort to the methods that every king of Westeros has used to oppress people for all of our history. If you are willing to buy and sell a person like they are livestock, all to gain a bit of gold, how does that make you any different from any king or queen who has come before you? If you're not willing to protect your people, you are not the queen I vowed to give my life to. I vowed to do anything necessary to put _that_ queen on the throne. And besides that, you've heard Lady Mormont and Tyrion," Jon said in a low, fierce voice, stalking toward her.

He looked different. He was standing taller, Sansa realized. "Sansa Stark has been called the key to the north for a reason. Sansa Stark was held in captivity in King's Landing—rather than executed— _for a reason_. The Lannisters know it, but you don't seem to understand it yet. You have gained a powerful weapon, one that can unite the north under your cause. If you dismiss Lady Stark, if you trade her for petty gold, or even simply give her back to avoid a hassle, you are both foolish and heartless. You are not the leader who deserves my vows." When he finished, he was breathless, shoulders rising and falling, fists clenched.

Daenerys' eyes were wet. _She does not want to lose him,_ Sansa realized. _This would mean the end of it._ Whatever had been between Jon and Daenerys would end.

This marriage would free him, too.

Daenerys turned her lovely head to look at Sansa now, her violet eyes shining.

"Would you have this done, Lady Stark?"

"I told you I would do anything to never go back to King's Landing—I would die before I went back there," Sansa said slowly. Her head was pounding, the blood thick in her ears, the pressure building. "If you really mean to take back the throne, to avenge the north, then yes—I would have this done."

Daenerys' lips trembled. _If they did not know the secret of her heart before, they all do now,_ Sansa reflected. This was not the face of a queen looking upon a knight less devoted than she had once thought; this was the face of a woman betrayed by the man she loved. It could not have been plainer if she had simply thrown herself into Jon's arms, begging him not to leave her.

Everyone knew the stories: the Targaryens had danced too close to madness, the gods flipped a coin every time a Targaryen was born. _Mad or sane._ Daenerys swallowed, her gaze fixed on Sansa.

"I do mean to. And I will."

It was a sacrifice made for the throne. Daenerys had already smoothed her features, and she turned to Missandei. "We will need a dress made of the Stark tartan, immediately." She then turned to Maege and Jeor and Rickard. "We will need the word spread—that Sansa Stark of Winterfell is to wed Jon Snow of the Targaryen house in the Sept of Winter Town in three days' time."

"Three days?" Jorah balked. "That will hardly be enough time to—"

"—It must be three days," Daenerys insisted. "We cannot linger much longer with Baelish's men on the hunt for Lady Stark, and our cause has been stalled too long. If we truly mean to do this, it must be done now."

Sansa still had not looked at Jon. She found that she could not even look in his direction. She was numb with shock, and barely felt Missandei's hand on her arm.

"Come, we will have to look for a seamstress who could make the dress," she said, and she led Sansa out of the room.

* * *

Davos arrived some hours later. Sansa and Missandei had still not returned from their errand, and they had spent hours discussing logistics with the Mormonts and Karstark, and when the former smuggler sneaked into the room, Jon was relieved. He had thought Davos dead.

"Most of the men were slain. Everything's been taken," Davos told them as Barristan handed him a tankard of ale and a hunk of bread. "Last I saw, Grey Worm was leading a small group away, but I don't know how far they've gotten." He had a bad wound on his leg; a dirk had got him. He had aged about ten years in the last few days; apparently he too had not been able to take a horse, and had had to make his way on foot. "I'll be glad to get further north, to Bear Island," he remarked wryly. "The central north is no safe place right now."

They all exchanged glances. Tyrion cleared his throat.

"Yes, about that… as it turns out, we will be traveling to Winter Town in three days' time," he said carefully. Davos scoffed in disbelief.

"Winter Town? That makes no sense; there's no reason—"

"—There is now," Tyrion said. "Jon Snow is going to be marrying Lady Sansa Stark in the Sept at Winter Town, and we want it to be a public celebration."

Davos looked like he had been slapped.

"It makes good sense," Jorah said. "The Stark girl will unite the north. Having a Stark on our side—"

"—But what of the Tarly gold?"

"—The Tarlys sold her to Petyr Baelish, of the Vale. They were never going to pay the ransom, it seems. Marrying Sansa gives us multiple advantages."

"Marrying Sansa protects her from those who have abused her and held her in captivity," Jon burst now, his face growing hot. Why did no one seem to care about this? "She's my blood, and therefore, she's Dany's blood, too."

"I would not emphasize the 'my blood' bit, if I were you," Daario said with a smirk. "That is rather famously a Targaryen thing, to marry their own blood, and we can all see how Westeros feels about that."

"He is a Targaryen," Dany said acidly. "Why should he hide it?"

"He's a Stark, too, that is for certain," Maege said, shaking her head. "To marry a girl to save her from cruelty—that is Ned Stark, make no mistake."

"And Rhaegar," Dany shot back, rising from her seat, her cheeks flushed. "My brother was known for his honor, his kindness, his sweetness. This is what Rhaegar would have done."

"Interesting. Rhaegar also more or less stole a Stark girl in a fit of passion. Though I think we can all agree that that one ended in tears." Tyrion took a long drink of his wine. "Oh, come on, can no one laugh about this? It's been what, twenty-five years? Surely it's funny now?"

"No, I'm afraid we cannot yet laugh about events that left a little boy parentless and a realm overturned," Jeor said coolly.

"It is still a usable angle," Tyrion countered lightly. "We need to emphasize both the similarities and the differences. They have the passion of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, yet the wisdom and stability of Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully," he said, waving his hand as if to paint a picture. "We will have the face of Lyanna and Ned in Targaryen colours, and Catelyn Stark's ghost herself, joined together in the Sept. Catelyn Stark's ghost will be cloaked in Targaryen black and red. That image alone will do wonders for our cause…the dragon and the wolf, joined yet again. A force of nature, immutable, unstoppable, eternal," Tyrion mused, almost wistfully.

He looked to Jon. "Are you quite sure you're against a public bedding ceremony? It would be a nice way to work that passion bit in—"

"Yes," Jon exploded, rising to his feet. "I am against it, and that's the end of it."

Abruptly, Daenerys got to her feet.

"Excuse me, everyone," she said, "I will be back in a moment." No one spoke again until the door had clicked shut. Jorah seemed to be trying to decide whether he ought to follow her or not.

"This seems to be a sensitive point," Daario observed. "Surely Snow isn't concerned about his performance? I believe he's had _plenty_ of practice."

His gaze rested heavy on Jon, and Jon clenched his jaw, trying to physically stop himself from another outburst.

"It seems you have something to say, so why not say it, Naharis?" Jon asked in measured tones. Maege, Jeor, and Rickard seemed bewildered, but no one else did. _They all know. They've always known._

The Tyroshi got to his feet and approached Jon lazily. He stood a finger's width taller than Jon, a point that he had always drawn attention to and that had always rankled for Jon.

"They say sellswords switch allegiances with the wind," he began in a low voice. "You have played her—and all of us—false. You vowed that although your claim to the throne was stronger, you did not want it…yet, this move legitimizes you, doesn't it? You have used her, and now—"

"—How dare you," Jon growled, his hand reflexively going to his belt for his sword—then he realized it wasn't there. He'd shed his weapons. "I have never wanted the throne. I have given everything to—"

"—You had nothing to give. You are considered a traitor to the realm, and without Princess Daenerys, you would be dead. Every breath you take, you owe to her," Daario seethed, and he gripped Jon's shirt.

"And every breath has been given back to her, you—" Jon pushed back, hard, with a growl of rage, but then rough hands were pulling them apart.

"That is enough," Maege said in disgust, yanking Daario backward as easily as if he had been a child, whilst Davos pulled Jon away.

Breathlessly, they stared at each other, ignoring the others.

"I think some food and a bath might be wise, Snow," Davos said now, letting go of Jon. He pulled a twig out of Jon's hair. "Seems like it's been a while, no?"

Jon said nothing, he stalked out of the room, with Davos on his heels, blinded by his rage. The older man pulled Jon into another room, where Barristan had dragged together a few lumpy mattresses. A fire was lit in the hearth, but the room was still cold.

"Going to blows with Naharis? I thought you cleverer than that," Davos said, not unkindly, as Jon paced furiously.

 _They all know._

He was cornered, trapped, for a thing he had never chosen. Like a wild animal, he walked back and forth, waiting for his blood to stop pounding.

"I must be tired," he finally said, slowing to a stop before the fire, staring at its flames. _They all know._

"That sort of nonsense won't do when you're married, I can tell you," Davos said wryly, dropping down on one of the mattresses. He chuckled to himself. "Wives will expect more of you." He paused. Jon watched the flames dully. "Speaking of wives…I thought you vowed to never marry," he reminded him cautiously, conscious of how his temper had raged earlier.

Jon continued to face the fire, avoiding the older man's eyes.

"She needs me," he finally said.

"I don't need to tell you to be careful."

"Careful?"

"You're crossing some very powerful men. And you're reminding many people that you're alive—and many people want you dead, son. That's the facts, sadly."

"Baelish will quit once word gets out that she is married," Jon said, finally turning to look at Davos. He offered Jon a half-smile.

"You've injured the pride of both Tarly and Baelish now. Even if they don't want the girl, they'll want their pride. You can be sure of it."

* * *

They had spent all afternoon sending ravens, in desperate search for a seamstress and for the Stark tartan. Sansa had never thought they would be able to have the Stark tartan in time, but to her shock, people all over the north had been weaving it.

"The rumors about the General spread fast, I think," Missandei observed as they walked back up to the rooms they were staying in. She had grown a little more lively throughout their afternoon, but her darkness had settled once more as they returned to the pub. Now, Missandei looked for Daenerys, and Sansa remained in the dark, silent hall, for a moment. She too had been caught up in the task of finding the Stark tartan, but now that her mind was no longer occupied with that, she was left alone with her shock. She went to the window at the very end of the hall and gazed out at the dingy street, dark with evening and empty of passerby. She gripped the windowsill until her knuckles bleached. A door creaked open and then shut again with a click, and she waited for Missandei to direct her to where she would be sleeping, but for a moment, there were no words.

She turned round; Jon was there, biting his lip.

"Sansa," he began, stepping forward. "I know it's a lot—"

"—Thank you," she interrupted, stepping closer to meet him. "Thank you, I mean it." She reached out, instinctively, and took his hand; at first he pulled back, yet his fingers linked tightly with hers even so. "It was a sacrifice."

Jon's lips twisted as he looked down at their linked hands.

"You won't go to King's Landing ever again," he said, looking back at her. "I swear it."

His grip tightened, and then they released each other. Without another word, he went into another room, leaving her with wet eyes and a pounding heart.


	9. Chapter 9

"Where the hell have you been?"

Father was waiting for him when Dickon rode into Winterfell late that night at the hunter's gate, holding up a lantern. He was barely sheltered from the rain by the entrance, and clad in a magnificent red silk coat, which made Dickon think of Jaime Lannister. Father's eyes took in the riding leathers that Dickon had borrowed from Ramsay as Dickon slid off his horse.

"Hunting, with Ramsay," Dickon replied shortly. He didn't want to even look at Father, let alone speak with him. Everything felt like it had been shifted or warped; he felt unequal to even holding a conversation. He attempted to brush past Father, but a vice grip on his upper arm stopped him. Dickon stared ahead, facing the opposite direction of his father, but beside him, held firmly in place.

"...You ought to have told me," Father said after a long moment. "I …was worried."

There was a weary gentleness to his voice that made it hard to breathe. Dickon swallowed.

"Sorry, Father," he said. "I left rather early and I didn't want to disturb you."

He risked a glance at his father. In the flickering torchlight Father looked older, and suddenly Dickon felt very tired. Father seemed smaller, weaker; diminished, somehow. He had secrets, shameful secrets probably, and it was disappointing, for reasons Dickon could not even name.

"Get some food. Hunting is hard work," Father finally said, letting go of his arm and slapping him on the back. Dickon pulled away, but his father's voice stopped him once more. "I've been looking for your brother."

Dickon turned in shock. Father wouldn't meet his eyes. "Haven't heard anything yet," he said gruffly, "but it's early days yet."

"R-right," he stammered. "Of course."

Numbly he walked to the kitchens, which were empty at this late hour. There was bread on the wooden table, and he meant to eat it, but he found himself sitting there at the table, staring at the grain of the wood.

He hadn't seen Samwell in so many years. Just the thought of seeing him again made Dickon clap a hand over his mouth to staunch a sob, even as his eyes burned. When that didn't work, he bit down hard on his knuckles, focusing on the pain, scrunching his eyes shut. He waited for the urge to cry to pass.

Of all the nights for his father to start looking for Sam...Dickon had been thinking of Sam the whole ride from the Dreadfort, thinking of what his brother might have thought of his choices. Kidnapping Lannister had been a mistake, a terrible mistake, the kind of mistake Dickon had never thought he could make. Lannister had said it himself: they would be hanged, now. They could not just let him go; this was not a thing that could simply be undone.

Understanding of what needed to be done—what could be the only possible path forward—had been settling in the pit of his stomach, heavy as lead, since he had left the Dreadfort. But to do such a thing...he kept thinking of how his brother's eyes had looked, the first time Dickon had gone hunting.

He'd killed a young deer, its spotted russet coat impossibly soft and silky—he was good at hunting, had been good at it from the start—and they'd brought back its carcass. His brother had sobbed, blubbering like a ridiculous baby, and had not stopped even after Father had beat him black and blue. Dickon hadn't been sad until he'd seen Samwell cry, and after that he had felt guilty and defensive every time he went hunting. It had not even occurred to him to be sad for the deer. It was just a deer, what did it matter?

What would his brother's face look like, if he knew what Dickon had done? If he knew what he had to do?

He didn't eat. He was never hungry anymore anyway. Leaving the bread, he stalked to the Sept, but it was locked for the night, and he did not even know who had the keys. It was his own Sept, technically, and he could not even go inside, this one time that he felt he needed to pray. With a burst of furious frustration, he turned away and went to the godswood, and stood before the heart tree.

Its mournful carved face looked upon him in silent judgment. _Help me_ , he thought, touching the bark, but then he felt silly and ashamed. The old gods did not exist; everyone knew that. It was just a face carved into a tree. There were no gods here in this wood. It was a stupid lie. He might as well pray to one of his little sister's dolls.

 _Someone help me_ , he begged, turning round though he knew he would find no help. From this angle, Sansa Stark seemed terribly far away and inconsequential. What madness had possessed him to kidnap Jaime Lannister in her honor? What did it matter if he had raped her? It was not as though kidnapping him, or scaring him, could possibly undo it.

She wasn't even going to be his wife anymore.

He paced. _I'll just make a deal with him_ , he decided. _To hell with Ramsay and his plans_. He would make a deal with Lannister and free him, and they could put this business behind themselves. Lannister knew that the Tarlys were loyal, and besides, he was a man of war; he had to understand the urge to defend what belonged to you.

Having decided on it, Dickon felt giddy and light. _It will be all right_ , he told himself. _I'll just ride to the Dreadfort tonight and end this at once_. And then Sam would come back, and perhaps Dickon could move back to the Reach.

He re-saddled his horse and was back on the road within a quarter hour.

When Dickon got to the Dreadfort, it had to be well after midnight, but there was enough activity even in the courtyard to suggest that the Bolton clan had visitors. Dickon dismounted, leaving his horse for the strange, mute stablehand, and went to the main keep.

The Bolton clan was small, and the Dreadfort was normally austerely empty of human life. Even Winterfell was more crowded these days, with servants alone. Dickon found it strange to be able to walk through the main keep, to the great hall, without encountering a soul at any point. Of course, this was primarily why the Lannister general was being held in the Dreadfort, rather than Winterfell: it was highly unlikely that anyone would come upon him.

In the main hall, Roose Bolton was talking with Lord Baelish, who looked like a rare and exotic bird compared to the rest of the Bolton clan. Today he was clad in a splendid rusted red cloak, clasped with glittering opals, and embroidered in gold and silver. Beneath it, his waistcoat was the palest mint green brocade, done up with dozens of tiny silk-covered buttons. Roose Bolton, by contrast, looked like he had rolled in mud. Baelish was the height of fashion in King's Landing, emanating wealth more clearly than if he had simply tossed out handfuls of gold dragons, and yet... Dickon could not help but respect Bolton more, upon sight alone. _He is a man to be feared, a man not to be trifled with,_ Dickon though as he entered the hall, even without invitation. Baelish looked more decorated than the most vain of ladies in King's Landing.

The men turned to him when he entered, and to Dickon's concern, neither man smiled in greeting.

"Dickon Tarly," Baelish greeted, cocking his head, bird-like. "What an odd coincidence," he pondered, studying Dickon. "We were just speaking of your former betrothed."

Ramsay joined them then, his hair still wet from a bath, clad in the plainest, most nondescript of tunics. He looked like he had traveled back in time, to the days of knights.

"Former betrothed?" he asked brightly as he strode in. "Do we mean the Lady Stark?"

"Indeed," Roose said in that hushed, buttery voice. He held up an unfurled parchment. "Baelish's men have informed him she is now to be wed to the Targaryen wolf."

"A terrible shame," mourned Baelish, eying Dickon. "For such a lady to be so befouled…I can only imagine what they will do to her lovely body."

"Then take her back," Dickon blurted, staring at Baelish. Baelish sighed sadly, though his eyes were dancing.

"Ah, to be young, and fierce, and unafraid," he grieved, eyes roving over Dickon. "But I was never so blessed as you, my sweet boy, with your fitness and abilities. I am simply a glorified accountant, nothing more. I could not hope to best the Targaryen savages." He looked down. "If only," he said regretfully. "But even my hired sellswords lack the bravery of, say, you, and your dear friend Ramsay."

"But she's marrying a _Targaryen_? She can't," Dickon confirmed, walking closer. All eyes were on him.

"Not just any Targaryen. _The_ Targaryen," Baelish said sadly, shaking his head. "The Targaryen wolf. No fiercer swordsman there has ever been, I'm afraid. When General Lannister invaded the Targaryen holdfast, the Targaryen wolf bested him in a fight for Sansa Stark, and stole her away."

"By Targaryen wolf, he means the boy that Eddard Stark raised in secret," Roose Bolton explained. "The son of Rhaegar and Lyanna."

Dickon knew who the Targaryen wolf was; he had grown up hearing horrible tales of the Targaryen wolf. Once upon a time, there had been concern that he might return, might try to take the Iron Throne. Dickon had grown up imagining a brute-faced savage with silver hair descending upon the shores of King's Landing, holding a spear. As a boy, he and Sam would lay awake at night, and in the darkness, so skilled at spinning stories that felt real, Sam would whisper. _And then the Targaryen wolf jumped from his boat, swinging a spear, roaring in a language no one knew, and first he went for the Princess Myrcella; he was going to scalp her and wear her golden hair…_

"As we all know, Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark, in the way that these Targaryens are so prone to," Baelish added. "I've often wondered if a child borne of rape can be capable of humanity." He shook his head, pacing away from them. "To best Lannister…he must be quite the savage. And look at me," Baelish said, turning round and opening his arms. "I could hardly fight off a housecat, let alone the best swordsman in the country."

Dickon and Ramsay looked between each other; Dickon looked away hastily. "And as he is to marry her, legally, in the Sept in Winter Town in but less than three days, I cannot even have the King's men charge him." Baelish's swarthy eyes lingered on Dickon. "I'm afraid only _you_ can truly imagine how I am feeling, my sweet Lord Tarly. To have an innocent, helpless beauty like Sansa Stark ripped away from you…and she has suffered so very much. First the repeated rape of Lannister, and now to be befouled by the Targaryens…even I cannot imagine the horrors they will inflict upon her. Such violence would be even beyond rape…Within days she will be unrecognizable."

The words were out of his mouth before he even knew what he was saying. Dickon's heart pounded.

"We must help her," he said, looking to Ramsay. Ramsay nodded eagerly.

"Oh, yes, my lord," he agreed vigorously. "You are so valiant to say so. She is no longer even your wife—"

"—But she needs us," Dickon reasoned frantically. He imagined the Targaryen wolf: wild silver hair and cruel violet eyes, wielding an arakh or spear, ready to scalp the first southron maiden he could find. He had heard that the Targaryen boy had lived among the Dothraki, and he shuddered at the very thought.

To have such a snake grow up in Sansa's proximity, and then to have him turn on her as he had…He pictured the fight between Lannister and the Targaryen savage, two brutes fighting for the chance to rape Sansa Stark. This animal, if he had bested Lannister, had to be a brute indeed, as Baelish had said. "…He is her own blood, if distantly," he realized in horror. "He has repaid Eddard Stark's generosity with rape and captivity." Dickon swallowed. _Northmen would not allow such an act to go unpunished._ "Winterfell cannot stand for such degradation," he said more loudly, clenching his fists.

"What are you suggesting?" Baelish asked with a scandalized gasp, covering his mouth. "Surely you don't mean to actually—"

"—My lord does," Ramsay said quickly, looking upon Dickon with his eyes shining with something like adoration. "So brave, to be willing to fight those Targaryen savages." Ramsay went to Dickon, and took his hand, clenching it in his grip. "I will go with you, my lord. We'll bring back Sansa Stark, and save her innocence."

"What's left of it, at any rate," Roose said dryly. Lord Baelish dropped to his knees before Dickon.

"I would give you whatever you asked of me, Lord Tarly," he said.

"And the Northern clans would be yours," Roose reasoned. "As I told your father—to rape Sansa Stark is to rape the north…and, therefore, to save Sansa Stark is to save the north."

Dickon thought of Sam, thought of General Lannister tied in the pit of the Dreadfort. _If I can save Sansa, she can accuse Lannister…and then it will not matter that I have harmed him._

"I'll save her," Dickon said, clenching his fists. "I swear it by the old gods and the new."

* * *

There was a gnawing hollowness at the pit of her stomach that felt like hunger, but it was so much worse than hunger.

Daenerys had grown up knowing all too well what hunger felt like. She was used to it; she could weather it better than nearly any of them. Daario, Tyrion, Jorah, Missandei, and Jon all became irritable and rude, or lethargic and sulky, but it rarely had an effect on her. She had grown accustomed to it, she knew how to distract herself, to focus on other things. But this was beyond her.

She lay on the lumpy mattress, with Missandei squeezed in next to her, though Missandei faced away from her. The room was blue in the dawn. On the floor, Maege Mormont and Sansa Stark shared the other mattress. Maege was splayed out on the mattress, leaving Sansa little room. Her copper hair spilled out onto the floor, pooling on the dark grubby wood.

Daenerys had not slept all night. Her stomach began to turn as the room brightened, and she gingerly pushed off the bed without touching Missandei, and padded across the floor on bare feet. Sansa stirred but did not wake as she walked past her, her steps ruffling the long, thick copper hair. She just needed some air, she told herself.

In the hall all was silent, not even Barristan had awoken and begun his work for the day. Daenerys crept to the room that the men were sharing and, so slowly, turned the knob.

Jon lay on the floor beneath the window, on a net made of tied reeds, his cloak cast over him, not completely covering him.

How did you give up someone who had come to mean everything to you? How did you let go of your entire world?

He would never touch her again; she would never again feel him inside of her, never again feel his stubble against the soft inside of her thigh, never again hear him gasp into her neck. It was over. They had had their last kiss, their last touch. The last night they had lay together, she had been so tired, and almost fallen asleep against him, her hand over his heart, feeling its even, smooth beat. If only she had lay there just a few more moments. She had been so consumed with worry about Sansa Stark's ransom; if only she had known it was to be her last night with him. She might have lay there a little longer, might have reached up and kissed him one more time.

And how fitting, that the thing she had loved most about him—his unfailing need to love, to help, to protect—was the thing that had torn him away from her. She had always thought it was the best of him and the worst of him, just like how she knew that her desire to strive for her values was the best and worst of her as well.

"Princess," a sleepy voice brought her out of her agony. Jorah sat up, blinking blearily.

"Go back to sleep," she whispered, and made to leave. Jorah followed her out into the hall, and shut the door behind him. Wordlessly he took her in his arms.

"I'm so sorry, Princess," he said hoarsely into her hair.

The tears she had been fighting were threatening to come out, and she buried her face in his shirt, scrunching her eyes to stop them from coming. She clenched her teeth.

"There is nothing to be sorry for," she said through her teeth. Jorah ran his palm over her hair, light as snow. She couldn't breathe.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again. And then the damned tears came; she hated herself for crying into Jorah's shirt like a little girl. This was not the behavior of a queen, this was the behavior of a lovesick little girl. Jon would never again laugh into their kiss as she flipped him over on the bed; Jon would never again look at her with those dark eyes as he entered her; Jon would never again sigh her name into her hair like she was the only person in the world.

Maybe he had been pretending, the whole time.

That made her sob harder, clutch Jorah's shirt tighter, shake more violently.

Maybe he had never loved her.

She thought of Missandei staring listlessly out the window, waiting for Grey Worm to return; she thought of Jon advancing on her, fury etched in his features. She poisoned everything, she ruined every love.

He had not even seemed sad. He had barely looked at her since he had agreed to marry Sansa Stark. She barely existed to him anymore.

He had never loved her.

Her stomach writhed and the room spun. She didn't know how to be strong through this. This was so much worse than hunger.

* * *

"This is a bloody nice net. Never knew you to fish." Davos had unfurled Sansa's net and was holding it up in admiration. "Better for ocean fishing, though. It's a bit too big for the river. Were you planning on fishing on Bear Island?"

The morning had been chaotic, and Jon, having slept on the net, had been awoken and so busy that he had forgotten to fold it up and hide it away. For some reason he didn't want anyone to see it—but leave it to Davos to see the things he would rather keep hidden.

"San—Lady Stark," he corrected hastily, "made it while we were traveling here."

Sansa, unfortunately, happened to be passing by the room at that moment, and Davos stopped her. Her eyes widened when she saw the net. Jon wished he could simply melt into the floor.

"Where do I get one of these?" Davos teased, stretching it a bit. Sansa flushed molten red. "Didn't know the ladies of King's Landing knew so much about fishing," he mused.

"It's a bit like making lace," Sansa said slyly, in spite of her embarrassment, her gaze flicking to Jon. "I didn't realize Jon had kept it."

"Smart of him to. This will be useful on Bear Island. Not much game to hunt there," Davos replied. "That is, I'm assuming you both will be following us to Bear Island after the wedding."

"No, I thought we'd move to King's Landing," Jon said sarcastically. He snatched the net from Davos, who was chuckling, and turned away to fold it and to hide his blush.

"And how are the dress preparations going?" Davos was asking Sansa. Their voices thinned as Davos followed her into the hall, leaving Jon in the room by himself.

He'd spent the morning helping Daario, Jorah, Tyrion, and Barristan plan appropriate defense for both the Sept and the inn where the wedding feast would take place. Tyrion had found an inn near the Sept that had a room lofted above the banquet area, which would be ideal for "witnessing" the bedding. Maege and Jeor had been busy sending ravens all morning, and the area near the window was littered with bird droppings as the clans had responded to the impromptu wedding invitations. He was just thinking that he'd not seen Dany all morning when there was a soft knock on the doorframe.

Jon turned to find Dany standing there, holding a bundle of black cloth. Her eyes looked red, and she was pale.

"Delivery for Jon Snow," she said wryly, clearing her throat. Jon's stomach gave a lurch.

"C-come in," he stammered, shoving the net underneath his cloak and turning to her as she shut the door behind her, drowning out the chaos.

"We finished it just in time, thanks to Sansa," Dany said, walking to the bed and shaking out the bundle. "She is quite the seamstress. ...A perfect wife, I suppose."

Jon stared at the ceremonial cloak splayed out on the bed before him. Dany stood next to him, arms wrapped round herself. "It isn't like the one Rhaegar cloaked Lyanna in; that one was embroidered and decorated with rubies. Viserys described it so many times." She reached out a hand and lifted the black fabric. It was lined with silk of the deepest burgundy, and the silver clasp, the three-headed dragon of Targaryen, had been borrowed from Dany's own cloak.

"This suits me better, I think," Jon said, holding it up. Dany was still staring at the red silk.

"You won't be the one wearing it," she pointed out softly, stroking the silk. "This will pair well with the tartan; it's simpler, more crude." She dropped the cloak. "I have never understood the tartan. They all look the same from a distance."

"I think that's probably the point," Jon countered with a half-smile. "More unity."

"One can only hope," she said darkly, turning away, clutching at her stomach again. She looked pale and somber. She stared out the window, placing a pale hand on the sill. "Sometimes I wonder if all this has been a waste."

Jon did not speak; he merely waited. "Grey Worm hasn't returned, and I think it is slowly killing Missandei. She won't admit it, but I know she is beginning to hate me." She laughed softly, looking down. "Every step I have taken toward the throne has cost me someone I love." Her shoulders tensed. "The ones who matter the most come to despise me."

"You gained an invaluable ally last night—"

"—I want a friend," she interrupted, her voice shaking. "You were not my follower, not my servant. I thought..." Her shoulders shook now, just once. "...I wonder if I held onto you too tightly. I made you want to run from me."

"I wanted to save a hurting, scared girl from a terrible fate. That is the beginning and the end of it," Jon replied. "I would have thought that that would matter to you more than anything."

Her shoulders shook again and she bowed her head.

"It should, but I cannot bear it," she said, barely audible. "I cannot stand there in the Sept and watch you—" her voice broke and they were silent for a long time. "I love you. I love you the most."

All the hairs raised along his skin. They'd never said it. He'd thought it, at various points, but his mouth could never form the words. "I can't tell if I want you or the Iron Throne more. I don't know if I can give you up to get the throne."

"Then you don't love me the most," he said softly, setting the cloak back on the bed. "If you did, you'd know."

"Do you love her?"

"No." He almost wanted to laugh at the folly of it. Yet even as he thought it, a flush rose along his neck. He did not love Sansa… _not yet,_ a voice whispered. _Not yet._

"Do you love me?" Her voice was so small, so un-Dany.

"Yes," he said at once, "but it is not the kind of love you want or deserve."

His hands were shaking. He felt as though he had been doused in icy water. Breathing was hard. He had told the truth, had said the thing that had not been said, in all their years together.

"Get out." Her voice was hard; her back became straight as a sword.

Jon left, heart hammering in his chest. In the hall, he heard Sansa's laughter coming from the other room, followed by Davos' chuckle. They were talking about sewing; he then heard Missandei's softer, more subdued tones.

"We'll leave tonight," Tyrion's voice came behind him. Jon turned and looked down at him. Tyrion looked weary, and for once had no wine with him. "We'll have to travel separately. Daario went out scouting and he says there are soldiers everywhere, looking for her." He mopped his face. "On the other hand, of course, Maege and Jeor have been so inundated with acceptances from the clans that I'm not even sure we'll have a place to put them all for the feast."

"Do you think it'll work?" Jon asked. Tyrion gave him a roguish grin.

"Do we have any better plans?"

He could not argue with that.

* * *

Jaime woke to find an ugly, fat woman staring at him. _Just how one wants to be awoken,_ he mused, writhing against his binds. Everything hurt, and his hand wouldn't move, and he was very, very close to pissing himself. It would have been all he could think about, but he had the matter of his hand to occupy all of his fears and consume him completely. _Lucky me._

She was staring at him, open-mouthed, eyes wide. Her tartan dress was shot through with blood red and was rather shabby, and she was holding a bucket of washing.

Jaime flashed his most brilliant smile at her.

"Why, you're a sight for sore eyes," he said sweetly. She stepped forward curiously. "I did not know they had such beauties in the north."

"Y-you're a soldier," she realized with a gasp. "Your coat—"

"—Is red, yes. Beauty _and_ brains—your husband is a lucky man." He winked at her and she flushed. "Come closer, let me see you. Your beauty is reviving me," he added, trying to make his voice more hoarse. He had never had much practice at seduction. She looked around, as though waiting for permission, and stepped forward haltingly. "No, come closer…I can hardly see you," he coaxed.

Soon she was standing before him, and gods, it was worse than he'd thought. She had to be a Frey; they all had that weasel-y look to them.

"I shouldn't be here," she muttered.

"No, you shouldn't," Jaime agreed. "Who knows what we might get up to in the dark."

"I'm married," she sputtered stupidly. Jaime sighed.

"No need to rub it in," he pouted. The fat woman screwed up her face and turned from him, and waddled off.

When she was gone, Jaime swore an oath. He really was about to piss himself.

And his damn right hand still wouldn't move.

* * *

"The northerners aren't fessing up, your Majesty."

Bronn shrugged and watched Gregor Clegane, acting general of the army, slowly arrange his brutish features into a scowl at his words. It looked heavy work, like dragging rocks across a lawn, and Bronn instinctively turned to his left to say such to Jaime, but then remembered, as he had a thousand times already that day, that Jaime was not there. The horrible lurch hit him anew, even as he bared his teeth in a smile at Clegane.

"My uncle Jaime is gone. I want to know who did this, and then I want to take their head off!" Joffrey shrieked, banging his hand on the armrest of the Iron Throne.

"That'll be a lot of Northern heads, your Majesty," Bronn said honestly. He thought of that innkeeper's ruddy face, twisted in dislike, as she had watched him circle the premises of the inn over and over again, never offering any help or any information. "It was planned, I'm telling you. There was a whole lot of them involved."

Joffrey leaned forward, his green eyes glittering with anger. He ought to have looked like Jaime, but there was something undeniably runtish and mean about his features, something rattish and small. Jaime looked haughty and arrogant; Joffrey looked stupid and cruel. As he had left behind adolescence and grown into a man, he had only resembled Jaime less and less. He'd not grown quite as tall as anyone had thought, and there was already a hint of a gut underneath his red brocade waistcoat.

"Then we'll get more pikes," he said in a low, vicious voice.

Cersei had been alternating between being ghostly and remote, and fiery anger that raged like a forest fire. At the moment, she was standing beside Joffrey, staring at Bronn blankly. On Joffrey's other side, his lovely queen Margaery was fretting.

"But _why_ take Jaime?" she wondered again, shaking her brunette curls. "It makes no sense."

Bronn glanced at Sandor Clegane, the younger and far smarter brother of Gregor. Their eyes met, and each man barely imperceptibly shook his head. _They can_ _'_ _t know._

The north rumbled with talk of Sansa Stark, of how Jaime had raped her mercilessly, repeatedly. At first it had been a mere wisp of a rumor—he might have manhandled her once. But so quickly it had escalated. By the time they crossed the Twins, it seemed that Jaime had somehow locked Sansa up for years at a time as his personal sex slave. The image was so hilarious to Bronn that he had—rather unfortunately—laughed in the northman's face as he'd told it to him.

"He's a symbol of Lannister," Sandor reasoned roughly. Varys made a pondering noise, tapping his powdered cheek thoughtfully. Littlefinger, Bronn noted, was absent. _Duly noted, you scheming little cunt,_ he thought gleefully. He would have bet any amount of gold that this was the little Mockingbird's doing. He did not know how, but he was sure of it.

"But Uncle Jaime is invincible," Margaery said sadly, doe-like eyes misty. Bronn wanted to roll his eyes, but he did not dare it. Again he felt a pang: he would have liked to make a joke to Jaime about the queen, and he knew that Jaime would have laughed.

Bronn left the throne room. His only option was to go to his favorite brothel, a little hole in the wall in Flea Bottom. He stopped in his quarters first, shedding his redcoat—the whores liked it but the rest of Flea Bottom did not—and then continued on.

A pliant brunette with soft thighs and a talented mouth named Darcy—one of his favorites—was waiting for him when he got there, and for a little while, Bronn lost himself in her cunt and tits. He'd never been able to convince Jaime to give whoring a try; there was only one woman the man had loved. _And what a worthy recipient,_ Bronn mused as he pumped in and out of Darcy, watching her tits bounce hypnotically. On a chaise on the other side of the room, her friend Ros, a pretty redhead with intriguingly dimpled thighs, was sighing ecstatically as a man fucked her arse.

He pounded and pounded, switching positions often, but he could not come. He'd never had this problem before. Never. He flipped Darcy onto her back and made her take him in her mouth, but he went soft even as the wet heat of her mouth enveloped him.

"What's wrong?" she pouted, sitting up to look at him. Bronn sat down on a pouf heavily.

"His—best friend—is missing—haven't—you—heard?" Ros grunted between thrusts up her arse. Darcy looked at him with simpering eyes, and Bronn looked away irritably.

"Poor man," she cooed, crawling onto his lap. "You know, I always wondered why General Lannister never visits us. After all, he is your best friend," Darcy continued, grinding against him. "What I'd give to fuck him..." she moaned, writhing against him. Nothing doing, though—he remained infuriatingly soft. He gripped her hips, stilling her ministrations.

"He's a fool; he'd be the first to tell you," Bronn replied, burying his face between her tits.

He'd never known Jaime to lose a fight. But clearly, wherever Jaime was, he'd lost a fight. Bronn couldn't stop thinking of how haunted Jaime had looked as he'd stalked out of the inn.

And now Gregor Clegane was acting general of the army, in Jaime's stead. Bronn mashed his face against Darcy's tits, wishing he could just disappear into them for a while. Why wouldn't his stupid cock work? This had _never_ been a problem for him.

But the idea of Gregor Clegane as acting general—the very thought—made him sick. He knew the man, knew the man too well. People might call Jaime brutal and vicious, but Jaime's violence only extended to what was expected on a battlefield, and it was always, _always_ with a purpose.

At long last he gave up, leaving a pouting Darcy with far too much of his money.

He couldn't think, couldn't drink, couldn't fuck, until he'd found Jaime. So he might as well go look for the arrogant bastard. _And kill him for interrupting my fucking time,_ he thought irritably.

* * *

Even whilst they'd been sewing, Missandei had been staring out the window, only further confirming Sansa's suspicions, and when her lovely face stilled in horror at Tyrion's announcement, Sansa knew she had been right.

"We'll leave tonight. The darkness should help us avoid Baelish's men," the dwarf informed them, pacing before the fire. "We'll leave individually, and go straight for Winter Town. Barristan has been kind enough to procure us new horses."

Sansa watched Missandei's face carefully; she saw how the Naathi woman's jaw dropped slightly, how her eyes went, yet again, to the window. "Princess Daenerys will leave last, guarded by Jorah, Daario, Davos, and Barristan."

Tyrion turned to Sansa now. "You and Jon will leave first. They'll not be expecting you to travel alone, and we might be able to pass through to Winter Town without notice."

"But what of the rest of Princess Daenerys' army?" Sansa asked, still unable to tear her gaze from Missandei, whose eyes met hers in surprise. "Should we not wait at least one more day?"

"We can't afford to wait any longer. We'll leave Lady Mormont and Lord Karstark here overnight, should any of them arrive."

She wished she could not feel Missandei's grief. It was overwhelming. Sansa rose to prepare for the journey with heavy, aching limbs. Missandei was still staring out the window.

"You'll want a heavy cloak; it smells like snow tonight," Jon told her as she walked to the room she had shared with the other women. "I'll meet you in the stables."

He had been businesslike and remote all day, only becoming more so after Davos had shown that he'd kept the net she had woven. They had not spoken alone since last night, and now they would spend hours alone together. Hours alone, with nothing but silence and evening air between them.

Sansa dressed warmly; Barristan had lent her another heavy cloak, and boots as well, though they were far too big. Missandei accompanied her to the stable outside of the inn, where Jon, dressed all in black, was saddling a grey horse.

"I'm sorry," Sansa said as they reached the shelter of the stables. A light snow had already begun to fall. Missandei offered a wan, blank smile.

"Whatever for, my lady?"

 _I am no lady anymore,_ Sansa reflected. Soon she would be Mrs. Snow. A thrill of something—fear? Grief? Excitement?—rippled through her at the thought, and she glanced back at Jon, who was soothing the horse, running a gloved hand over the horse's neck. She looked back at Missandei with a sad smile.

"You know," she said simply. Missandei looked down at her clasped hands.

"I will travel with your dress. I wish you a safe journey," she said formally, before turning away from Sansa.

And now she and Jon were alone in the stables.

 _Damn._ Why did she have to keep thinking of the stupid bedding? Tentatively she approached Jon.

"How long will the journey take?" she asked, watching him strap a leather pack to the horse's saddle.

"A few hours. We'll be there before dawn," Jon said shortly. He glanced over his shoulder at her, examining her clothing. "Good, you've got boots."

He was being especially gruff, especially short. _He is embarrassed,_ she realized.

Jon helped her into the saddle, his strong hands on her waist, and Sansa could not meet his eyes. _Bedding. It_ _'_ _s the stupid bedding._ It was making everything so awkward. She slid in his grip slightly, his gloved hand too high up on her rib cage, and she practically threw herself over the other side of the horse in her effort to correct it, and he nearly dropped her.

"Sorry," they said at the same time. "No, it was me," they each said at once, then looked away from each other. She thought of the bite mark on Daenerys' lovely pale neck. _You just_ _…_ _do what you want to do, I guess,_ he'd said, that night, his northern voice rough with northern whiskey.

Jon mounted the horse behind her, a rush of his scent filling the air around her. His hands were on either side of her, gripping the reins.

What did he want to do to her? Had he thought about it?

She was glad to face away from him, so he could not see her flush. With a kick into the horse's side and a low noise, they were off, leaving the stable and heading out into the street. The snow was heavier now and all was silent. He was too close; she could feel his chest brush her back.

 _You just do what you want to do, I guess._

He had wanted to bite Daenerys' neck. Did he still want to bite Daenerys' neck? Was he sorry to be marrying her? Did he want to bite her neck as well?

Why couldn't she stop thinking about that stupid damned lovebite?

"Are you warm enough?" His voice was too soft. She was overcome with the urge to slap him, though she could not say why. She clenched her teeth.

"Yes." After a long pause, as they rode toward the gate of Torrhen's Square: "…Are you?"

"Yes."

A shadow stood at the gate, cloaked in grey, waiting. _Missandei,_ Sansa realized as they drew closer.

"Who is she in love with? Is it Grey Worm?" Sansa asked over her shoulder, in a low voice.

"Aye," Jon murmured.

"He _is_ quite handsome and mysterious," Sansa remarked, thinking of how his dark eyes had lingered on them when she had first arrived at the holdfast. "And she is lovely and mysterious. It's like a novel, isn't it?"

Jon said nothing, but he slowed the horse as they reached the gate. Missandei was shivering, clutching her cloak round her slim shoulders.

"Safe travels, Jon and Lady Stark," she said politely between shivers.

"You too," Sansa replied for them both.

"Don't stay out too long. You'll freeze," Jon merely said, and with a whip of the reins, they left Missandei behind.

For a long time they rode in silence. The falling silent snow began to cover the land, as they approached the Wolfswood. She was not cold, but she was sad. The falling snow always made her think of the family she had lost. She wondered if Jon was thinking of them.

"Do you remember when you gave Bran that fish? Because he hadn't caught one and was sad," Sansa asked suddenly. She felt his warm breath rush against the back of her neck as he let out a sad laugh, and every hair on her body prickled to attention.

"Of course," he said sadly, his voice nearly lost in the trees as they entered the darkness of the Wolfswood.

"And—and you taught Arya how to fight with a sword, and Mother was so mad." The horse had to slow, as the bramble was too thick underfoot to continue at such a pace. They might have been the only people in the world as they rode through the silent wood. "And that time you and Robb scared us all in the crypts."

"You screamed like a babe," Jon recalled with a short laugh. Sansa found herself laughing as well, but it was agonizing, too. The wood around them shifted in the snow, pale shapes like ghosts following them. "I think of them all the time," he confessed suddenly. "Robb and Arya the most."

"If I had a son—"

"—He'd be Robb, yes," he agreed immediately. "And Arya, for a daughter. I've always wanted—" he stopped abruptly and did not finish the thought, but she knew what he would have said.

For a long time, neither could speak.

"Robb missed you so terribly. They all did. It was awful to watch," Sansa finally said. She heard him swallow. "And Rickon didn't stop crying for days. Robb kept secretly promising he would go and rescue you, and it was the only thing that would stop the tears."

She thought of her brother, his beautiful Tully hair and beautiful Tully eyes, his head decaying on a pike; Joffrey gripping her chin, forcing her to look. _He can make me look but he can_ _'_ _t make me see,_ she had told herself furiously, each time, and then each night she would _see_ them anyway, the family she had lost, rotting and given over to maggots and flies, reduced to nothing more than rotting meat. And then she thought of how General Lannister's strong hands had held her upright when her legs would have buckled beneath her. _Fuck everyone,_ he had said in her ear, so fiercely that it had taken her aback. The venom had given her strength, in the moment.

"Being back in the north isn't easy," Jon finally said, in agreement. He shifted in the saddle and she felt him brush against her again. Everything in her head felt a mess, her thoughts and hopes and fears all tangled like ruined thread. She did not know how she could be so empty, so wrecked with despair, and yet so electric and filled with desperate hope at the very same time. She did not even know what she was hoping for. Everything had been taken from her, always—her dreams, her family, her home—so why did she hope now? What did she even hope for?

"Do you think they'll find us?" she finally asked, feeling his hard chest brush her back yet again, his strong legs against the backs of hers. _You just do what you want to do, I guess._ She thought of how his neck had looked as he'd swallowed the whiskey, thought of how his lips had twisted into a sly half-grin. Her belly warmed as though she'd drank half a bottle of whiskey.

"I like our odds, I think," he said lightly, and she laughed.


	10. Chapter 10

Jon had felt Sansa slump back into his arms after a few hours, even as his own eyelids had grown heavy. The contact jolted him awake, and he drew in a few bracing breaths. Her head lolled against his shoulder, and he could feel the weight of her exhaustion...and the softness of her body, even through their heavy cloaks. His skin tingled where they touched, as though she had run her fingertips over his bare skin.

In less than two days' time, they would be married. And what then? They would go to Bear Island, and work for Dany's cause, and live as husband and wife? Or would they be married in name only, and live separately? They had never actually discussed it, though the question had lingered in the air between them the whole journey, around which they sidestepped gingerly, hyperaware of it. He did not know how to ask; he was afraid to find out what she wanted. That, and lately, the idea of continuing to support Dany seemed like a dark forest on the edge of which he was lingering. He did not know if he wanted to continue. He did not know if he could stop, though.

By the time they had made it through the Wolfswood, the snow had stopped, and the rolling land was blanketed in ghostly white. Winter Town loomed up before them, a mass of snow-capped terra cotta and slate roofs, the horizon pierced by the dark obelisk of the Sept's tower.

"Sansa," he said in her ear, reluctantly, and heard her sigh sleepily, before gaining awareness and startling, sitting forward and away from him with haste. The cold air rushed between them, to fill the space she had occupied.

Sansa's face burned; she was glad Jon could not see her. She'd not meant to fall asleep against him, and now she couldn't help but worry whether she had snored or drooled. "We're almost at Winter Town," Jon added, nudging the reins in the direction of the snow-capped buildings.

Winter Town was a labyrinth of whitewashed walls green with moss and vivid slate-stone and terra cotta roofs with so many greens, blues, and reds, that it looked like the sea, stretching out before them. The snow made the night brighter, so that the white walls stood out nearly as much as they might have in daylight.

She had not been scared to be so close to Winterfell before, but Winter Town, even at this late hour, glittered with life, and Winterfell was closer than she had realized. Torrhen's Square, so abandoned and remote, had made it too easy to forget just how much danger they were really in. There were hundreds of people in Winter Town who were not loyal to the clans, and who would happily turn any of them in for a fair price.

The Sept was at the center of Winter Town, looming over everything at the top of the hill over the town square. It was new compared to most of the other structures in the town; northerners had only recently begun converting to the Faith of the Seven, within the last century. Sansa had always found the stained glass of the Septs so lovely, but in the darkness, it seemed little more than a towering, grim obelisk dedicated to southron culture.

And then, beyond Winter Town, loomed Winterfell, a mere shadow in the purpled sky.

The surge that went through her at the sight of it left her breathless and reeling, her eyes burning. _Home._ She blinked and rubbed at her eyes. _Home. I want to go home. I just want to go home._

"I see Winterfell," she explained thickly.

"Aye," Jon said softly, a rush of warmth against the shell of her ear. "I forgot how close it is."

They came to the western gate of Winter Town, which consisted of two crumbling turrets flanked by ancient walls, their roofs of warm, rippling terra cotta partly hidden by the snow. A clansman—it was a Mormont man; the tartan was green—was slumped at the entrance with a rifle balanced between his legs. He startled at the sound of the horse, and clumsily picked up his rifle.

"State your name and your business," he insisted sleepily, unfortunately punctuating the command with a yawn.

"Lady Sansa Stark of clan Stark, and Jon Snow," Jon said, not dismounting, angling the horse slightly away from the clansman. He gasped and stepped forward, peering up at them.

"Sansa Stark," he breathed, dropping at once into a low bow. "Aye, it is you indeed. That is Catelyn Stark's daughter before me. And both Eddard and Lyanna behind you." He looked misty-eyed as he rose. "You're here sooner than we thought."

"And cold and hungry and tired," Jon said meaningfully. "Lady Stark has been through much."

"Of course, of course," the clansman stammered, flustered. He went to the gate. "Aye, the inn is close. Make a right immediately and you'll see it. The Wolf and Fish Inn," he said, rolling open the wrought iron gate with a thin rattle. "Winter is coming," he said respectfully to Sansa, bowing once more, deeply.

 _Winter came for my family already_ , she could not help but think, _and where were you?_ though she smiled upon the clansman.

"Here we stand," she replied dutifully, but was glad to turn away from him. _Here you stand, while the corpses of my family rotted long ago in King's Landing._ She could not explain what so poisoned her heart—after all, there was no doubt that the clans, even the Mormonts, could never have bested the royal army and broken into King's Landing to save her family. _But they had sworn they would try,_ she could not help but think, as she had so many times while in captivity in King's Landing. _What is the point of a vow if you will never honor it?_

They passed through the gate and heard the clansman shut it again with another jangling rattle. The streets, winding and twining up the hill leading to the Sept, were muddy, a foul mix of mud and icy slush, and a few people walked along the streets in shadow, but that was not what made Jon abruptly still the horse. Sansa looked up in surprise. "Why are we—oh."

The Stark tartan hung from the flagpole of every facade, rising like grey birds in the sky. Embroidered into every single one was a red wolf: hand-stitched, and done quickly, at that.

In the low wind and snow, the tartan rolled and undulated lazily, so that the red wolves flashed and whipped and flickered before her.

She felt Jon let out a slow breath, and it rushed against the nape of her neck, and shudders rent her body. He tensed around her.

"It must be for you. The red wolf," she said softly. "Red for Targaryen. You're the red wolf."

"I think not," Jon said, tugging on the reins and moving in a circle, looking round them. "I think this is for you. I like this not."

"Nor do I," she shivered. Her heart was in her throat. If these hundreds of flags were for her—if Jon was right—then why did she feel so much fear? "This smacks of Tyrion," she realized suddenly.

After word of Viserys' bloody death had reached King's Landing, back when Tyrion was still working for the Crown, they had hung flags with the Targaryen crest—the three-headed dragon—everywhere, in mourning. It had been a blistering bit of a smear campaign. The whole of King's Landing had laughed as each banner was unfurled, and people toasted to Viserys everywhere. The night it had been done, in the banquet hall, they had solemnly toasted to "The Beggar King," before bursting into laughter. _Poor King Viserys_ , they had all said, so mock-sadly, and there had even been a rather funny puppet show, a satire of a tragedy detailing the sad, stunted life, and many failings, of Viserys Targaryen. Tyrion had received many congratulations on this particular campaign, and after that, no one had seemed to be very worried about the Targaryens anymore, and the unrest accompanying Joffrey's ascension had slowly died down.

"Aye, it does," Jon seethed, and he dug his heel into the horse's hide and turned at the first right. They went down a narrow street laid with stone, and the horse's hoof-strikes were loud here. At the end of the street, The Wolf and Fish Inn's lighted windows patterned the street with patches of jewel-like golden light. A black-lacquered sign swung above the door, carved and painted with chipped paint depicting a wolf leaping from a river with a fish in its jaws. Its walls were whitewashed and stained green with moss and rainwater. Jon immediately veered left to the stables, and helped her dismount. She stumbled a bit, her legs sore and stiff from riding—her whole body was weak, actually. Jon caught her, holding her by the arms.

"S-sorry," she said, embarrassed, straightening. "It seems I'm still not used to so much riding."

"Don't be sorry," he said softly. "Wait for me; we'll go in together." And he cast a suspicious look around them before leading the horse to stable.

After tying up the horse, they went through the front entrance, a crooked lacquered black door set into the whitewashed walls, and inside, though it was late, it was warm and filled with golden light from the fire, and a man was playing a fiddle by the hearth, and guests were still seated at long tables, drinking ale and laughing amongst each other.

Their gazes both traveled in search of the room lofted overhead. Rickety wooden steps, more or less tacked onto the stone wall, led to their fate. _The bedding again. We can't escape it._ Sansa flushed and busied herself with removing her gloves, and Jon cleared his throat and began in search of the innkeeper, and then they both saw it.

Against the back wall, the Stark tartan hung, emblazoned with that red wolf. A red-faced woman with curly, frazzled blonde hair partially covered by a lace cap came to greet them, glowing at the sight of Sansa.

"We're here under Lady Mormont's name," Jon greeted the woman brusquely, taking a roll of parchment from his cloak that had been sealed with the bear of Mormont, and passing it to the innkeeper. She beamed at them.

"I know who you are. It might as well be Ned and Cat coming to my hearth," she whispered excitedly, her words curling in the northern way, and Sansa felt a pang of homesickness that she felt every time she heard such a thick northern accent. She touched Sansa's cheek, then Jon's, so fondly, like she'd known them all their lives. "Aye, you look just like your mother, just like Lady Mormont said," she said to Jon. "Them are the Stark eyes, and that's the Stark mouth, or I'm a Lannister." She chuckled at her joke, but Jon and Sansa merely looked at her coldly. "And you, look at you—Catelyn Stark born again, though you've got the Stark look about you, too."

She set her hands upon Sansa's shoulders, gazing at her lovingly, and sadly. "Aye, you poor child. How you've suffered, suffered far too much. Come, we've rooms upstairs, and a hot supper. Look at you two, you're nearly frozen through. Come, come."

The woman was a distant Tallhart relation, named Dilys, and she was surprisingly light of foot for a woman so large. After stopping at the kitchen to collect two trays of supper, she led them up another set of stairs to a hall of rooms. Three had been set aside for their group, in addition to _that_ other room, set aside for the bedding. "Here you are, have some supper and warm yourselves, and I'll bring up the others when they arrive," she told them, ushering them into one of the rooms. It was a cosy room with three beds, and two chairs by the hearth.

Jon shed his dirk and sword, still looking ill at ease. Sansa hung up her cloaks and dropped into one of the soft, worn chairs to remove her boots, and Jon sat down across from her, scowling into the fire.

The pervasiveness of the Stark tartan—after all, it had been far too easy to acquire it for her wedding dress—kept niggling at her. And what Dilys had said... _how you've suffered, suffered far too much._ Even if Tyrion had sent a letter to every clansman of the North, that alone could not have got so many people to stitch a wolf into the Stark tartan, to hang the Stark tartan from their flagpoles. This was beyond them; this was so much bigger than they had realized. And yet... she thought of the Mormont man, bowing to her, and felt another stab of anger.

"This will sound unkind," she began tentatively, picking at the roll of sour bread. She felt Jon watching her. "But I was held captive in King's Landing for quite a long time, and no one ever made any attempt to get me back. All these clans swore fealty to Father, and not once did anyone try to save me, or try to save Father, or Robb, or any of us."

She hated herself for voicing the words that had been locked inside her heart, like a vial of poison she had been keeping hidden, for so long. They burned her tongue as she spoke. "You saw how the Mormonts and Rickard Karstark reacted to seeing me. They were all too ready to send me back, without another thought. And now the Stark tartan everywhere, and the Mormont man bowing to me, and Dilys Tallhart so sympathetic...the sudden loyalty feels quite false. That's why I think the red wolf must be you. It can't be for me."

"That doesn't sound unkind. It sounds ...right," Jon mused, the fire dancing in his eyes.

"It makes me feel like I don't belong anywhere," she suddenly confessed in a rush. "I was a prisoner in King's Landing, and I can't pretend I've forgiven the northern clans. My family was executed with almost no resistance against the Crown. No one came to break my father out of his imprisonment, no one came to Robb's rescue, and when my little brothers and sister and mother were captured, no one came to steal them back, either." She was systematically tearing up the bread. "And now—if the red wolf _is_ me—they just want to use me, they think I belong to them, just like everyone else seems to." Her voice shook.

"Aye, I know a bit of what that feels like," Jon said softly. "You know that you do not belong to me, right?"

Sansa looked to him in surprise. His eyes looked darker than ever. "I want to free you, not imprison you. Aye, it's not how I'd wish to do it—it's still confining, I know—but it's the only way I can think of keeping you safe and out of King's Landing. It doesn't matter what the northern lords, or Tyrion, might say of it—you don't owe us your allegiance. You don't owe us anything. And it matters not what Dany says, because deep down she does not mean to trap or enslave you. To use you as she has is not who she truly is."

He looked away now, his gaze far off, at a point in time she could not travel to with him. "In Essos, Dany stormed from one city to the next, freeing those who were enslaved. She didn't want the Iron Throne at all, in the beginning. That had been Viserys' dream, not hers. They called her Breaker of Chains in Essos, and that is who she is, deep down. What she did for me...she saved me. And I know that if I had ever truly wanted to walk away, she would have let me, in the end."

He shook his head. "Ransoming you was not who she is...but she's become desperate. In the beginning, she did not like the plan, but we were eventually convinced that it was the path of least violence and least suffering. I did not like the plan, either. It shamed me to do it. I should have fought against it more; the whole reason I've followed Dany, the whole reason I took a Bloodrider's vow, is that I believed completely in what she stood for. I believed she was not like anyone else."

"She seems lost, right now," Sansa said carefully, thinking of the look on Daenerys' face when Jon had proposed the idea of marriage.

"Aye, she is lost," Jon agreed sadly. "We're all lost, it's just as you said."

Jon would have said more, but there was a knock on the door, and it opened, to reveal Tyrion and Missandei, both so thickly bundled that at first they were unrecognizable. The trunk bearing Sansa's wedding dress was dragged behind Missandei.

"Princess Daenerys is on her way," Tyrion told them as Dilys showed them into the room. His mismatched eyes were dancing. He was in the best mood that Sansa had ever seen him in. He looked positively cheerful. "Now, where is the ale? Give me all of it," he told Dilys with a grand gesture, and the woman chuckled. Tyrion dropped onto the floor before the fire, holding up his hands. "What on earth is the matter with you two? You both look like it's your bloody funeral."

"J-just cold, is all," Sansa said quickly, rushing to fill the silence. Jon was staring at Tyrion with eyes like ice.

Not long after, Daenerys arrived with the other men, and the room began to feel quite overcrowded.

"Strange sense of decoration they have here," Daavos remarked gruffly as he shed his own cloak, looking at Jon and Sansa. "Never seen a whole town decked out for a wedding."

"Ah, so you noticed?" Tyrion asked innocently, pouring himself more ale. Jon had got up off his chair to allow Daenerys to sit, and was leaning against the mantle of the hearth, arms crossed. He straightened at Tyrion's words.

"Of course we noticed," he said, "the whole bloody place is covered in the Stark tartan and that red wolf."

"It might be my best work yet," Tyrion confessed with relish. "You will recall how Jeor Mormont told us that word of Jaime raping you has been flying up and down the north. Well, I had heard that people were beginning to wear the Stark tartan, in solidarity, and in honor of you and what had been done to you. So I merely capitalized on that," he explained slyly.

Sansa's blood went cold. "You are our red wolf, with your flaming red hair and your Stark blood, my dear lady Sansa, and now that the godswood at King's Landing has been burned, the northerners are positively salivating for a rebellion."

"But Jaime didn't rape me," Sansa insisted, feeling sick. "In fact—"

"—Even so, we might as well make use of the rumor," Tyrion interjected.

"You would do that to your own blood?" Jon asked now, his voice low, and scathing, with disgust. "You always said Jaime was the only one of your family who was kind to you."

"Please, Snow," Tyrion said now, settling comfortably against a pillow on the floor. "The rumors will be there whether they make flags with a wolf or not. And if you think that the Crown would not do the same against us, you are an even bigger fool than I thought. Jaime was perfectly willing to attack our holdfast and destroy our force, and obviously that means he was willing to face the difficult decision of whether to kill me."

"But he didn't," Jon insisted. "He let me and Sansa go without even a scratch."

"That remains a mystery," Tyrion dismissed. Sansa studied Daenerys carefully. Daenerys's mouth was set in a grim line and she stared, as though transfixed, at the fire.

"We were using Lady Stark as an endorsement of our cause anyway. This is simply taking it a step further," Daario reasoned. "The rumor was simply the spark. Now we'll bring the fire."

Jon was still staring at Tyrion. Tyrion returned the gaze steadily.

"I am well aware you've never respected my methods, Snow, but you cannot deny that they work." He cocked his head to the side. "Funny, I've often noted that marriage does not exactly improve most men. It seems to have made you even more sulky, and more vocal. Curious."

"If there is a rebellion, it will be built on a lie," Jon said. "A lie that we have no way of proving—"

"—Or disproving." Tyrion's good mood was beginning to visibly ebb.

"But Jon's right," Daenerys said at last, narrowing her eyes at Tyrion. "Jaime was always the only one that you ever had any love for. This will damn him, you know this."

"He was already damned," Tyrion said, staring into the fire. "And he knows it." He looked around at them. "Does no one else see the brilliance of this plan? We have turned a nasty rumor into a significant advantage!"

"You would never have done this before," Jon insisted. "This plan is built on a lie, not to mention it makes the risk of this wedding even greater than it was before. We are practically within a stone's throw of Winterfell, which _Dickon Tarly_ holds. This is fool's work. Something's changed."

"Yes, Snow, something has changed," Tyrion snapped, setting his ale down with a clunk. "This is our final push. If this does not work, I have no ideas left. Do I want to sacrifice my family? Well, yes, but not Jaime. You are correct in that I would never have done this before. But we are desperate, and Princess Daenerys isn't getting any younger. No one wants an old queen. They want a young, beautiful queen, a marriageable one, at that. We are running out of time and out of resources. I don't know if you noticed, but my dear brother has decimated our forces, in the original sense of the word. We are one-tenth what we were one week ago, and what we were one week ago was not even effective enough to rob a Winter Town market for food. These are the ugly deeds one must do in pursuit of the throne."

He looked down. "And as I said, Jaime was already damned. No one wants to hear that he did not rape Sansa Stark. No one will believe it, even if Sansa Stark herself goes to every bloody house in the north and tells them herself. The world has despised my brother as much as they have desired him, and they are just as ready to kill him as they ever were to fuck him. He will never outrun the rumors of Joffrey's true parentage; they have at last caught up with him." Tyrion smiled slightly. "I'm Tywin Lannister's son before I'm anything else, and my father would never pass up such an opportunity."

Sansa thought of the man who had danced with her at Joffrey and Margaery's wedding, the man who had given her his coat when her own dress had been ruined. A lump rose in her throat. _He was already damned_.

And then she studied Daenerys, who was hugging herself. In this moment, she did not look like a queen. She looked like a scared little girl, who just wanted to be sent home.

After they had all eaten, they retreated to the rooms they were sharing; Sansa, Missandei, and Daenerys all together in one. While Daenerys bathed, Missandei and Sansa unpacked Sansa's wedding dress, which had only barely been finished in time.

"It really is so lovely," Missandei said quietly, stroking the tartan.

The dress was rather more daring than Sansa might have normally wished, but, as Maege and the seamstress—and Tyrion too—had insisted, a sober gown would not light the imagination of the northerners on fire. They needed to ignite passion, to paint a picture of two young people in love—a love somehow inextricably tied to Daenerys' claim to the throne.

And so it did not quite cover her shoulders, and the sleeves were the softest grey whisper of sheer fabric ending at her elbow in feminine pleats, just sheer enough to hint at the skin of her arms underneath. It was almost scandalous, really, particularly for a northern wedding. She had never had quite so much of her skin on display.

But the stomacher was her own work, and the part of the gown she was most proud of.

Embroidered in silvery thread, she had depicted leaves weaving together at her waist, and rising up, to give form to a shadowy wolf roaring at her bust, though upon first glance, the embroidery would look like some unidentifiable, decorative design. The silver of the thread lent a certain glamor and enchantment to the dress, which, had it been merely the Stark tartan, would have been quite dull indeed. The skirt was massive and heavy, so heavy that Missandei nearly dropped the whole dress when she took it from its wrapping.

Just when they were hanging up the dress in the wardrobe, there was a knock on the door. Daario was waiting in the hall.

"Grey Worm is here—with the Mormonts and Karstark," he told them breathlessly. He'd been out in the snow; it was still melting in his hair.

Sansa gasped; she looked to Missandei, who seemed to have become frozen in place, and was blinking rapidly. A splash reminded them of Daenerys; she was holding up a cloth in front of her, her eyes bright.

"Grey Worm?" she breathed. "Help me get dressed—"

"—I'll help her, Missandei; go," Sansa said immediately.

Missandei did not move for a long moment, and then, almost as though controlled by puppet strings, moved slowly and stiffly to the door, looking at the floor, and then went into the hall as though possessed.

It was just them in the room, now. Sansa helped Daenerys into her corset and chemise, wishing she could look out the window and watch Missandei reunite with Grey Worm. The corset was hard to fully lace up; Sansa struggled with the strings. She couldn't seem to get them to the indentations made in the strings from being worn in the same way for so many months. She'd never had to do other women's corsets, of course. She had renewed sympathy for her maids she had had throughout her life.

"Oh, hurry, it hardly matters; I'll just put on a cloak," Daenerys said, snatching her cloak from the floor. "Come, let's go," she said, radiant with joy. Sansa felt a pang for her; the princess' visible relief told so much. _She's been worried_ , Sansa reflected, as they excitedly scrambled into the hall and down the steps.

The other guests had all gone to bed; the main hall of the inn was empty, and the fire was dying. Daenerys and Sansa pushed through the door and into the night, breathless, clutching their cloaks.

In the yard beside the stable, a dozen people were dismounting horses, including the Mormonts and Karstark. Jon was helping some of them with their horses. Beyond them, Sansa watched Grey Worm drop off his horse with the sleek grace of a cat.

He looked terrible; the side of his face was poorly bandaged, and his arm was wrapped in a sling, and he looked drawn and gaunt, dark shadows beneath his dark eyes. Missandei stood to the side of the yard, staring at him mutely, with wide eyes. He landed on his feet and turned to her, and offered nothing more than a wordless nod, before abruptly turning away to tend to his horse. Daenerys went to him, still clutching the cloak round her un-corseted form, her silvery hair dripping wet.

"We feared the worst," she said, placing a hand on Grey Worm's arm.

"We lost nearly everyone," Grey Worm reported simply, and turned and led his horse into the stable. Missandei stared at the ground, clutching her cloak round herself, and then abruptly turned and went inside, without speaking to or looking at anyone. She looked weak with relief.

Everyone went inside, tending to the Mormonts, Rickard Karstark, and Grey Worm and his men; in the commotion, Sansa was forgotten, and for a long time she stood outside in the yard. The snow had begun to fall again and she closed her eyes, feeling each flake kiss her cheeks and forehead. Over the pointed rooftops she could just barely make out the shadow of Winterfell, and her eyes began to burn again.

She just wanted to go home. She wanted it so badly that she could not breathe. She knelt in the snow, busying herself by forming the snow mindlessly, though before she knew it she was forming shapes she knew all too well. The armory, the hunter's gate, the Sept... Tears tracked down her cheeks as she pressed her thumb into one of the mounds, to make the broken tower.

Snow crunched underfoot behind her; she felt someone kneel next to her.

"Here, the godswood." Jon leaned forward and pressed a few broken pine fronds into the snow in a pattern.

They were silent as their bare hands, red and numb with cold, built Winterfell from memory. It seemed a necessary task; the thought of going inside, leaving it unfinished, was unbearable.

She thought of the flickering red wolves on the Stark tartan; she thought of how quickly the Mormont clansman and Dilys Tallhart had sworn their allegiance to her; she thought of the fear in everyone's—even Tyrion's—eyes as they had discussed Tyrion's maneuver. She thought of Jon's rage, of Daenerys' pain.

She had thought she wanted vengeance, but now she realized that all she wanted was to go home. The clansmen's false loyalty made her feel weary and sad. Where had those banners—and all the fire that went with them—been when she had been imprisoned by Joffrey? When her family's heads had been put on pikes?

When they had finished, they each stared at the Winterfell made of snow before them. The snow castle became a blur of silver and white before her, and she felt Jon's gentle hand on her shoulder.

"You need sleep," he said heavily. They got to their feet, and she felt his hand on her back as they walked back inside. The main room of the inn was empty, now, and the fire in the hearth had died down to glowing embers. The Stark tartan, embroidered with the red wolf, seemed to sag sadly at the head of the room.

"You go on to bed," she said to Jon, who looked back at her with his brows drawn together. "I just...I need a moment to myself," she explained. Jon's hand lingered on her arm, and he dropped it.

"Don't stay up too much longer," he said softly. He bit his lip, she saw his gaze flick to her lips, then to her eyes again, and then, hastily, he turned away, and went up the stairs on light feet.

Sansa hugged herself, staring at the red wolf, and went to it, touching the embroidery. Why could she not appreciate this sign of devotion, of fealty? Why did her heart feel so blackened, so poisoned? Years ago, when she had still been innocent and hopeful, she would have been brought to tears by the gesture, by the sight of so many flags in her family's honor—in her honor—but now... She quickly turned away from the flag and paced back to the hearth, hugging herself more tightly. What would happen to Jaime Lannister? The irony of it all was so cruel: he had been her lone champion in King's Landing—granted in often unexpected and underhanded ways—and had done more for her than any of the northerners had ever done...and yet now they were all rising up against him in her honor. And she knew Tyrion was right; she was powerless to turn the tide.

"Lady Stark," came an unfamiliar voice. Sansa froze before the hearth and let out a gasp of surprise.

Across the room, beneath the stairs, a woman cloaked in red was smiling at her. From the shadows she stepped forth, and her feet made no noise. In the dim lighting, shadowed by the hood, her smile was skeletal.

Sansa fought the reflex to run or scream, and turned to face the woman. Was she one of Baelish's? Was she Cersei's?

"I don't believe we have met," she said politely, dropping into a curtsey. The woman narrowed her eyes, studying Sansa. In the low light they looked almost ruby, but that couldn't be right.

"We have not, in the flesh, though I have watched you in the flames so many times I feel as though I know you." She stepped closer to Sansa, and Sansa flicked her gaze around the room as subtly as possible, looking for a path of escape—or a means of defense.

She would not be taken. By anyone.

"The flames?" she queried politely. All of those years at court had led her to perfect the art of appearing politely interested.

"The Lord of Light has chosen to show me your face. It has taken some time to find you."

 _Don't step back. Don't show you're afraid or that you suspect her._ Sansa smiled, showing no teeth.

"Well, my address has changed quite a few times in the last month," she joked, but the woman's expression did not change.

"No, it is that we were not fated to meet just yet…but I had to see you. The Lord of Light has been good and granted me this chance, the chance to deliver a message to you. I had thought it would come to pass no matter what, but if He has allowed me to meet you..."

A drop of sweat began to crawl down her back. Sansa swallowed against the dryness in her mouth. The red woman stepped forward, her eyes suddenly burning with the fire of a zealot. "There will be fire and blood when the young wolf has grown, and when the dragonwolf becomes a kinslayer, and is slain at the Crownlands, darkness will descend. I have seen it in my flames."

 _Jon. Kinslayer. …And Dragonstone._ Sansa smoothed her features into a mask.

"I'm sure I don't understand you," she said breezily. "Is that a riddle?"

The woman ignored her, and stepped closer once more, and gripped Sansa by the wrist, her grip stronger than a man's.

"Find the white stag before the young wolf has grown. Or you will lose everyone you love at the Crownlands, and the realm will burn." Her voice, so melodic, was smooth and rich as red wine, and her eyes glimmered even though the room was not lit.

"Lady Stark?"

Davos appeared at the top of the steps, followed by Grey Worm and Jon, and Sansa jolted in shock.

"She—" Sansa looked back, but the red woman was gone. She shuddered as Jon thundered down the steps.

"Who were you talking to?" he demanded, but Sansa was peering round the corner, into the hall that led to the kitchens. Nothing.

"She disappeared," Sansa stammered, feeling Jon's grip on her arm, turning her back to him. She met Jon's grey eyes. _…When the dragonwolf becomes a kinslayer, and is slain…_ "It was a woman all in red. She said she saw me in the flames," she repeated, as Jon walked her back out of the hall, to rejoin Davos and Grey Worm. Davos, to her shock, snorted.

"I thought we were done with bloody witches," he snarked to Jon, who let Sansa go and stalked out the front door.

"Witches?"

"Red women," Grey Worm explained shortly, his unbound hand going to his dirk almost as a matter of reflex. Jon came back in, snow melting in his hair. He looked furious.

"They were crawling all through bloody Essos," Davos complained. "Couldn't open your damn front door without hitting one. I can't believe one made it this far through Westeros, though. Heard they were being hanged here. Evidently they don't drown, so that's the test: try to drown 'em, and if they float, hang 'em."

"What did she say?" Jon asked, stepping closer to Sansa.

"Just…nonsense about a battle at the Crownlands," Sansa said carefully, shrinking from Jon's gaze. _Why can't I tell him?_

She felt him set his hand on her shoulder, and she risked a look at him again. His eyes were so soft. _He is no kinslayer._

"Oh, very good—seems they're getting more specific with their guessing game," Davos was saying, chuckling. "I suppose one of them learned Princess Daenerys was born in the Crownlands. Seems nice and poetic to have her battle there. I suppose the red woman predicted that she would die there, too?"

"…Yes," Sansa lied, wrapping her arms around herself. There was no need to upset Jon; he was already feeling so guilty for questioning Daenerys…and though the red woman's words were nonsense, they left her cold and weak with an inexplicable fear. _Fire and blood…_ "And something about a white stag," Sansa added suddenly.

"Stags aren't white," Grey Worm said bluntly, and Davos was chuckling again. Even Jon looked like he was trying to stifle a wry smirk.

"How do you know? Met every stag in the world, have you?" Davos teased, as they began walking back up the steps.

"The Baratheon symbol is a stag," Sansa pointed out as they reached the long hall leading to the rooms they were renting.

"Oh, that's right," Davos conceded. "Perhaps when Joffrey's old, we can call him the white stag."

 _He is no stag,_ Sansa thought, but she did not speak it. "Pay the red woman no mind, Lady Stark. If she gets into the building again, she'll not do much more than talk nonsense at you."

Davos and Grey Worm went back to their own room, leaving Jon and Sansa in the hall.

"Are you—" Jon began, then halted, looking unsure. _When the dragonwolf becomes a kinslayer and is slain…_

"I'm only a bit shaken," she said. "We should sleep."

"Aye." But he did not turn away just yet.

The hall was too warm, and his eyes were too dark. She was drowning, the hall was airless. A lazy heat, not unlike the molten golden heat of whiskey, was pooling in the very pit of her belly.

He looked away, trying not to smile, and ran a hand over his jaw. "Davos told me he is shearing me like a sheep first thing tomorrow," he told her, stepping back, making to go to his own room. "The beard has to go."

"No," she blurted, and his gaze jerked back to her with a curiosity in his eyes. Her face grew warm, nearly as warm and damp as the lazy heat in her belly. A sudden giddiness possessed her. _It's the stupid bedding. And the red woman…it is all making me drunk._ "I just mean that it looks very…northern," she said lamely. His lips twitched.

"Northern," he confirmed skeptically. "And that's why you don't want me to shave."

"Exactly," she insisted primly, holding her chin up. "Really, you all should have thought of that yourselves."

Trying not to laugh, she turned on her heel and went to her door, painfully aware of his gaze on her back, and the shameful, lovely, dangerous, aching heat between her legs. "Good night," she said in that same prim tone, before turning the knob and going inside.

* * *

"You'll need men, and luckily, the Greyjoys ought to arrive early in the morning," Roose Bolton was saying from the long table. He and Lord Baelish were poring over a map.

"Greyjoys?"

"The Ironborn," Baelish explained in a low, thrilling voice. Dickon balked.

"Are they not savages?" They were like the Dothraki of Westeros: disorganized, uneducated, hairy savages, who raped and plundered and killed.

"Savages who control many of the smaller clans, such as the Mallister, Glenmore, Ryder, and Ryswell, among dozens of others," Roose said patiently.

"And they are the fiercest of men," Ramsay added, pacing. "They are _true_ men. They will make quick work of taking back Lady Sansa Stark for us—"

"—But I'm going to take back Lady Stark," Dickon interrupted, then his face flushed in embarrassment. Why did they all look so amused?

"Of course you are," Baelish finally said, "…aided by the Ironmen. So many birds with just a single stone...The Greyjoys are like kings there, and they have sent their Prince Theon Greyjoy to us with a garrison of warriors."

"But why? There is no war," Dickon pointed out, confused.

"The Dreadfort is woefully under-manned, and the north's turmoil is rising," Roose said. "Without the Greyjoy force, we cannot hope to stand by you and your father for Winterfell, if the north does rise."

"The Greyjoy boy will enjoy a little sport," Baelish mused, toying with a golden pin on his waistcoat, of some kind of bird.

"Do keep an eye on him, when you take back Lady Stark with him," Roose said aside to Ramsay and Dickon dispassionately. "He has an unfortunate habit of raping anything with a cunt. It is one of the less savory traits of the Ironmen. They never bother to control their urges."

"Lord Tarly will not let any harm come to my betrothed, I am sure of it," Baelish said, turning his glittering, penetrating gaze upon Dickon, who flinched away.

"The Targaryens will take her to the Sept in the late afternoon; the ceremony would be finished by sunset, were it to occur successfully," Roose said now. "They are staying at an inn close to the southern gate of Winter Town. All told they have no more than fifty men, including the Mormont and Karstark forces. The inn is not well-protected, but the Sept is another matter. Once she gets to the Sept, you will have far more difficulty extracting her. Not to mention the multiple infamous swordsmen who will be in proximity to her: Sir Barristan Selmy, once a lieutenant general of the royal army; Jorah Mormont, once a brigadier; a former commander of some sort of an army in Essos; and the Targaryen wolf, who is known and feared for his savagery."

"A good friend of mine in Braavos tells me he slew hundreds of masters in their raid of Astapor," Baelish added, stroking his goatee.

"Raid of Astapor?" Dickon asked, blinking. He would not even have been able to pick out Astapor on a map of Essos.

"The slave trade once flourished there, and before she decided she was entitled to the Iron Throne, the Beggar Princess decided she knew better than hundreds of men, centuries of careful government, and abolished the slave trade with fire and blood," Roose explained. "I am surprised you did not hear of it."

He could vaguely recall Father mentioning it, and Lady Sansa had asked him for his thoughts on the subject at the masquerade, but he had not even known for sure what had happened or when it had happened, and had merely offered a noncommittal noise before changing the subject, to avoid further embarrassment.

"But slaves are not allowed here. That seems a just cause," Dickon said uncertainly, wondering if he had grossly misunderstood Bolton's explanation.

"Only because of Eddard Stark, who insisted relentlessly. It was an unpopular change. And at any rate, hundreds of innocent men died and Astapor has been broken ever since. Everything was built upon the slave trade. Now no one is safe—master _or_ slave. Children starve, parentless, in the streets, and the women who were once slaves now have no choice but to prostitute themselves. It has been a disaster," Baelish said. "And they say the Targaryen wolf slew half."

Dickon did not respond. He felt queasy. Slavery had always been a clear wrong, but the idea of an overturned, starving, ruined city was terrible, too.

"We ought to check on our guest, Lord Tarly," Ramsay said suddenly. Dickon's gaze snapped to Ramsay, whose smile was brilliant.

"Guest?" Baelish asked with interest.

"Nothing—er, no one," Dickon said sharply, and furiously followed Ramsay out of the main hall.

* * *

"My love, my light, my reason for carrying on has returned," Jaime said, as the fat woman darted into the dungeon, a mere shadow. He'd pissed himself hours ago, which might hurt his chances of seducing her, but somehow he thought not. He was beginning to get through to her. Just a little more effort…

He had managed to pull from her that this was the Dreadfort, and that she was married to Roose Bolton, which had only increased Jaime's certainty that he could seduce her and escape. The man had the eyes of a cold, dead fish, and an eerie, haggard face. Jaime had met him once, at court—the man was quite the northern snake—and had been unable to stop himself from visibly shuddering.

"I shouldn't be here," she muttered, stepping closer.

"I've been thinking of nothing but you," Jaime whispered. He had never needed to seduce with words—hell, he had never needed to seduce. When things had still been good between him and Cersei—and even after it had all fallen apart—they had been simply drawn to each other's skin like a force of nature, unstoppable. There had been no need for seduction or cajoling; rather even the act of not touching her was an enormous exertion of self-discipline. When he'd been young he'd not seen the need for such discipline and had taken absurd risks for even a few minutes alone with her.

Not so with this one. "It is just my luck," he said sadly, "to meet such a captivating woman when I myself am a captive already." _Oh, that was clever,_ he congratulated himself. _Tyrion would be proud._

 _...And Cersei would slap me._

In the darkness he could just barely see her face screw up in tears.

"My husband says I'm ugly, that I'm nothing more than a cunt and a womb," she confessed in a low, choking voice.

"Your husband is a fool," Jaime whispered urgently, matching her tone. "He must be so overcome with jealousy."

"Jealousy?" she asked stupidly, nearly dropping the bucket she was holding, as a prop.

"Of course," Jaime reasoned. "A beauty such as yourself—if you knew you were beautiful, you might think you deserve better than him. He needs to make you believe you are ugly so you can never stray to greener pastures. It has no honor but I can understand the sentiment. Beauty drives men wild; they will stoop to shockingly low measures for a beautiful woman."

"You are a liar," she choked in a watery voice. "You are as cruel as they say." She turned and fled, but Dickon Tarly was at the entrance to the dungeon, still rain-soaked and looking even worse that he had earlier. Behind him, Bolton's boy, Ramsay, was following, like an ugly, vicious little terrier.

"Walda, what are you doing here?" Ramsay asked, casually slapping her across the face. She really did drop the bucket this time. "Couldn't resist a look at the Lannister general, could you? Horny, desperate cunt," he said summarily, and kicked the bucket out of the way as he passed her. Dickon looked uncomfortable and uncertain, but did not challenge Ramsay, and instead went to Jaime.

"We're going to save Lady Stark from the Targaryens tomorrow," Dickon informed him heatedly, stepping closer to him.

"Of course you are," Jaime said, rolling his eyes. "And then she can tell you herself that I never touched her. I'm sure she will be terribly thrilled to see you. And where will you be taking her? To your own bed, so you can take her as you took Winterfell, or to Lord Baelish?" Dickon's mouth twitched in rage, his eyes growing wet.

"I didn't _take_ —"

"—Yes, you did. But what does it matter? The Tarlys have always been ambitious," Jaime reasoned viciously. "Don't pretend you're so valiant, Tarly—you're no different than me or Baelish or even the Targ—"

The blow was a surprise. Dickon Tarly had backhanded him; Jaime's jaw throbbed and his neck hurt with the force of the strike. Dickon stepped back with a look of horror, his mouth trembling, his eyes bright with tears.

"Stop it," Walda whispered from the corner, and Ramsay hit her so hard she did not say another word, and merely knelt upon the cold, wet stone, whimpering in pain.

"I'm _not_ like you or Baelish or the Targaryens," Dickon insisted in horror. "I would never do what you had done."

Blood was pooling in Jaime's mouth, and he spit it out before raising his gaze to the Tarly boy. _That mouth will be the end of you,_ Tyrion had warned him once. _I pray to the Seven that someday you will learn to keep your mouth shut,_ Cersei had said furiously. _You're too impulsive; you cannot resist having the last word, and it will ruin you,_ Father had said.

He was lurching over the edge of a cliff. One more step would probably kill him. So why did he move? It was not for Sansa Stark, it was not for anyone but himself. He smiled, all bloody teeth, at Dickon Tarly, whose Adam's apple moved as he swallowed in horror.

"If Baelish is so horrible, why are you bringing Sansa Stark back to him?" he asked scathingly. Dickon's hand fisted, and he raised the fist, shaking, but at the last moment he dropped his hand, and suddenly turned on his heel and left.


End file.
